To Break a Chain
by RevesdeMiroir
Summary: Twenty years after the ordeal in the cellars beneath the Paris Opera House, Christine and Raoul's daughter stumble upon a passage she hasn't seen before. What lies in store will not only test her, but the strength of every bond she has.Based mainly on the
1. Through the Looking Glass

Author's Notes: Hello everyone, and welcome to my first fanfic on this site! First off, you can guess it…

Disclaimer:

I don't own ANYTHING. Copyrights to Leroux, Lloyd Webber, and everyone else who deserves it. However, Danielle is my character and I would appreciate that she stays that way. My fierce little doggies are prepared to help me with that matter.

In this first chapter is part of a song from Offenbach's opera "Les Contes d'Hoffman." He, obviously, owns that. The song is really quite beautiful, and I would suggest listening to it for yourself.

Well, with that out of the way, on to the phic! This is, by now you've probably all realized, a phanfic for Phantom of the Opera. It is mainly based on the 2004 movie, and kind of AU. Ages don't matter much to me, but I'll go more into that when I have to.

Now, without further ado, please read!

Chapter 1 – Through the Looking Glass

The Rue Scribe ran behind the Paris Opera House, horse and buggies trafficking past the front, hooves clacking loudly on the cobblestones. The mist from the Seine still clung to the ground, hiding from the early morning sun. Few people were out in the cool autumn morning, and those that were focused on their destination. No one bothered to notice the young woman walking unobtrusively down the road, hugging close to the wall. Her blue cloak fluttered behind her as she kicked at her full black skirts. Taking one glance around, Danielle tucked stray strands of her sandy hair behind her ear and crouched down by the wall of the theater.

The little grille set into the wall creaked quietly as she pulled it open. It was one of the first passageways the girl had ever found, her own back entrance into the Opera. She smiled at the very thought of her secret, just one of many hidden hallways and doors she had discovered over the years. She glanced around once more and dropped through the opening.

The short alley was dimly lit, the only light coming from the street behind and the still waxing daylight high above. She strode confidently now, relaxed in her own domain. The Opera flowed in her veins. Hidden in her secret passages, Danielle Daae de Chagny was the ruler of the theater, knowing it like only a creature born to the place could. She was a faery queen in her world of mist, flitting silently from one corner of the house to the other without a soul seeing her she did not wish. She stopped in front of a stained glass window that alternated blue and violet colored panes. The thick lead was a familiar, firm feeling as she traced her hand over it and found the slim handle. The window opened silently at her bidding, and she slipped unnoticed into the empty chapel.

As she eased the window shut behind her, her hand paused. There was something different about her Opera today. She was always one of the first here, definitely before any of the musicians, yet soft strains of music whispered through the vaults. It coaxed her towards the door, out into the corridor. She kept her footsteps quiet as she strained to listen. The soft sound floated weakly down the hallway, as if it had risen from far beneath the floor. Danielle paused again, her hand on the stony wall. It was barely audible, but her musician's ear reached harder for it.

Whoever was playing, or singing – it was hard for her to discern even that – the music was so…sad. The noted ran weakly in the hall, rising from the depth of some tormented soul, and, by some luck of the wind, she snatched the bare words "…angel in hell…"

Her young heart skipped a beat in her chest, and her loud pulse suddenly in her ears drowned out anything else. She couldn't have heard what she had just heard. Could she?

Snatching her hand away from the wall, Danielle hurried up into the theater to escape her haunting fantasy. The theater quickly took shape as she rose, turning from the cold stone of foundations to the warm wood and paint of the grand foyer. Gilt and friezes decorated the magnificent lobby, the marble staircase sweeping grandly through the red velvet. Dutifully, she unlocked the main doors and slipped into the just-awakening backstage. Her footsteps carried her swiftly past the props-masters, through the miniature forest of bright scenery, up into the catwalks. She hung to the shadows, quietly climbing higher and higher through the house until she reached a small concealed door. It eased open quietly for her, and she slipped in, unnoticed at her great height.

The room inside was small and unfurnished. A small round window peered down at the stage, occupying most of the room's space, rising in the middle of the room from a waist-high box that threw light into the room from far below. A small staircase, two more doors, and a cramped nook that led into a separate hall surrounded the lithe room like a crossroads. Danielle pulled off her cloak and stepped down the stairs from her door. She hummed softly to herself, trying to puzzle out what she had heard below. For a moment her hand rested on a worn leather binder, filled with loose sheets of music paper covered in her ink. She thoughtfully stared at it, her mind still lost to that strange, haunting melody, and the small three words that had risen with it.

Shaking her head free, the young woman dropped to a seat on the floor and grabbed the thick book lying by her feet. Her legs crossed, her back against the window-box, she let the memorandum-book fall open in her lap and started leafing through it randomly. She scanned it lazily, unimpressed. She wasn't even sure why she had picked it up in the first place. It had been thrown haphazardly into a waste bin outside the managers' office. What had caught Danielle's eye, though, was how relieved the two Opera managers had appeared when it fell, looking as if they had expected it to rise back out of the bin and attack them where they stood. With a laugh of forced bravado, MM. Moncharmin and Richard had walked back into their office, leaving Danielle and the secretary looking rather bewildered.

She perused the book with a curious eye, wondering why they had been so relieved to finally dispose of the dreaded manuscript. It had been printed nearly twenty years ago, but the rules and regulations that ran the theater had changed little since then, even with the need to rebuild part of it after the fire. So why had they gotten rid of it?

Her hand suddenly paused, along with her musings, half way through turning a page. At the bottom of the page, written with red ink in a strange script, read the words, "Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance."

The simple words took her by such shock that she took a third glance and finally jumped to her feet to see in the better light of the window for the third time. She frowned down at them, touching the ink in disbelief. "I don't believe it…" she muttered quietly, but a small smile of wonder was stealing over her face. Tales of the Opera ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, had haunted the young woman's mind for years. People in the Opera were always whispering about him, laughing and pointing at shadows. But whenever Danielle de Chagny came near they would fall silent. Her parents always cut conversations off whenever it somehow veered to close to how they had met, to the great tragedy that their daughter had only managed to glean scraps of in all her eighteen years. And, oh, how hungrily she searched for them. All of her passageways had been once been his, she had told herself, all of the secrets of the Opera house laid out in plain sight before him. How she yearned for that knowledge.

Actually, any knowledge, any hint of that mysterious shadow of a man would be welcome.

But now there was proof before her young eyes. Here was proof that the Opera ghost had existed, and apparently claimed rights to Box Five twenty years ago, the same box that was now reserved for the Chagnys. She skimmed eagerly through the rest of the book until she reached the last page. Beneath the conditions by which a manger could be removed, the very last thing in that boring, tedious book, was the same enigmatic red ink that was at such odds with the rest of it.

"Twenty thousand francs?" Danielle scoffed, her dark brown eyes wide. "What would a ghost want with twenty thousand francs a month?"

"Danielle!" someone's voice suddenly called from the house, cutting off her thoughts. She regretfully tore her eyes away from the book and glanced out the little window. People were by now gathered on the stage, ready to start the rehearsal. Frowning, she turned and grabbed the doorknob to one of the doors. A small slit of shadow appeared on the slim balcony surrounding the chandelier as she cracked it open to peer out. A man was striding down the aisles toward the foyer, calling her name. Wit a small sigh, she shut the door and hurried out of the room, leaving the book and folder by the windowsill.

Backstage had woken up while she was reading. People rushed around as Danielle trotted by them. She was suddenly halted by a tall young man grabbing her arm. "Danni!" Jacques cried with a smile. Her older brother's gray eyes were bright, so like his father's. The thick, curly hair that was nevertheless trimmed and tamed was so like his mother's, though. He pulled her out of the way of a man burdened with an armful of props. "They're looking for you."

"I heard," she said, twitching her skirts aside as he started guiding her around sets and props. He didn't even bother to ask where she had been; he was used to it by now. "Why?"

"One of the sopranos is sick, and they want you to sing her part," he said with a shrug. His younger sister's steps faltered.

"Me? But they…I…" He didn't miss a beat in dragging her on. The young woman's mind spun. They wanted her to sing? But she played piano! The most she had done was play organ for a few performances. She would have gratefully played piano except that it wasn't part of the orchestra. They wanted her to sing. A soprano part!

They broke free of the clutter of backstage and into the house before she had a chance to even fully wrap her mind around the idea. The stage itself was crowded with dancers and singers; props masters adjusting costumes; Madame Giry, the ballet instructor, looking over her charges with an acute eye. Christine Daae beamed at her children as Danielle finally freed her grip from Jacques. Her hair was already done up, her rich curls falling down her back and studded with tiny jewels and a gold circlet. She lifted up her heavy skirts and took her daughter's hand warmly, pecking her forehead with a kiss.

"Mama, what's going on?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae!" the maestro suddenly cried in relief. Mercier's normally optimistic smile was strained slightly as he waved to her. "Come, come, Miss Daae. Your mother tells us you are familiar with the score for _Les Contes d'Hoffman_?" Her eyes went wide and flew to her mother. Christine's smile was warm and encouraging as she rested a hand on her shoulder. Danielle finally recognized her dress as Guilietta's, the rich fabric belaying the Italian woman's role.

"As well as Offenbach himself," Christine said. "Danielle, would you sing

Antonia's part for tonight's performance? Theresa's come down with a cold, and I know you can sing it." Even knowing it would be a soprano's part, Danielle wasn't ready for the shock of singing a leading role. Antonia, the young, sick singer, was the young, infirmed woman Hoffman fell in love with in the opera. She blinked away her glazed expression, her young gaze flicking up to where her father sat. Christine watched him give a small, encouraging smile. Danielle licked her lips, took a long calming breath. Finally she nodded.

Mercier cried again with relief and clapped his hands together. "Wonderful, wonderful, mademoiselle. Shall we take it from Act III, then, the final scene?" He tapped his baton conclusively. Danielle seemed to get a hold of herself again and walked over to the mark on the stage. Her anxiousness faded as she listened to Crespel sing and took up her own part. The orchestration rang in her ears the loudest, guided her. Most of the performers fell quiet as they watched the young singer, raising her voice to the trio.

Jacques hid a smile and walked up the aisle to climb through the corridors to Box Five. He opened the door and found Nicola waiting to kiss him warmly. She was beautiful, pushing back her golden hair to peer up at him with loving eyes the color of sapphires. Jacques took her hand in his just to feel his ring on her finger. He was about to say how glorious, radiant she looked, but she rested a finger on his lips.

"I didn't want to disturb him," she whispered, rising on her tiptoes to breathe in his ear. He followed her gaze to the seat at the front of the box, and gently kissed her palm before moving to stand behind the seat. Raoul de Chagny sat watching the stage, a light of pride and joy in his eyes. A small smile lit his features, the papers in his hands forgotten. His son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law stood unnoticed over him, he was so absorbed in the music.

Nicola squeezed her fiancée around the waist. "Do you think we'll look that proud one day?" she asked with a small, secret grin. Jacques' heart quickened, and he said, a little too loudly, "Of course!"

The vicomte shifted and glanced behind him. His shoulder length hair had more gray in it, but his blue eyes were as bright as ever. "What, 'of course,' Jacques?"

"Ah, nothing, father," the son stammered, and Nicola suppressed a laugh. The vicomte glanced between them, and that same small smile crept onto his face again. "I was just saying," Jacques retorted, "that Danielle will impress herself tonight." Raoul nodded and chuckled, looking back at the stage. Mercier was contentedly keeping time with his baton while Antonia, her mother, and Dr. Miracle swept on with the trio.

"Of course she will."

_Je cede au transport qui m'enivre._

_Quelle flamme eblouit mes yeux?_

_Un seul moment encoure a vivre!_

_Et que mon ame vole aux cieux!_

The painting fell still again as Antonia collapsed onto the stage. Crespel was over her in an instant, gathering her in his arms and crying aloud, "My child! My daughter! Antonia!"

"A love song!" Danielle panted as she sang. "Qui s'envole, triste ou folle…C'est une chanson d'amour!" As she went limp in his arms in death, he shouted for a doctor. Danielle obediently dropped her hand when Dr. Miracle lifted it up.

"She's dead!" Hoffman rushed over, pushing past the deceitful doctor.

"Antonia!" And the curtain fell to the wave of applause. The lead male smiled and offered Danielle a hand up. "Marvelous, mademoiselle!" She smiled, her cheeks flushed rosy red as Crespel and she hurried off the stage. Her back thudded against the wood as she caught her breath in the wings.

All of that couldn't be applause. It must have been the blood rushing in her ears. She hadn't known she could immerse herself so totally in a role. It was exhilarating! Certainly at the piano she could lose herself in her own composing and sit for hours before the keys, but she had been Antonia out there. She had felt like a young woman frail with sickness, singing for her dead mother until she herself had died from the strain…

A hand clapped her on the shoulder as one of the actors brushed past her and onto the stage. She desperately hoped that her cheeks weren't still red as she pressed herself against the wall, letting the other singers past. Pulleys creaked as the sets were changed. Danielle found herself watching the ropes as she let her blood settle. Something suddenly caught her eye in the catwalks, what looked like a pale face high, so high above. She squinted up at it, and thought she saw for a moment a darker shadow, like a thick cloak, twitch aside beneath the face. It gave her a small bow, inclining its brow. A set suddenly passed in front of it, and Danielle gave a small gasp of surprise. When it finally settled to the stage, the face was gone.

At the end of the performance, Jacques was proven right. The applause for Daae, mother and daughter, rang from the rafters. The loudest praise came, of course, from Box Five. Raoul swept out of the box when the curtain finally fell and headed towards the dressing rooms. People clapped him on the back and shouted congratulations as he passed, but he managed to escape with only a few words. He pushed his way through the crowd and finally pushed open the door to the dressing room Christine had whisked their daughter off to. He notices with a wisp of nostalgia that it was the same room he had first seen Christine in after her own debut.

At the quiet click of the door shutting, Danielle leapt to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement. "Do you see all of these, Papa?" she exclaimed breathlessly, gesturing around at all the flowers strewn through the room. Christine came to stand beside her husband, still resplendent in Guilietta's magnificent gown. He turned his head to kiss her kindly before looking back at Danielle.

"You were marvelous, Danielle," Raoul said, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek like she were a little girl. He smiled and pushed her hair out of her face, chuckling at her blush. "You sang like an angel. Just like your mother." His daughter's smile brightened: she knew what a compliment that was coming from her father. "Come, get dressed and we'll all go to dinner." He pulled Christine towards the door, who paused long enough to kiss Danielle on the forehead.

"We're so proud of you, dear." She squeezed her shoulder endearingly, and Danielle hugged her tight before she and Raoul disappeared into the crowd outside the door.

In the sudden silence, Danielle sighed and breathed in deeply. The smell of flowers was intoxicating. As she grabbed her blue black dress and stepped behind the screen to change, she shut her eyes and reveled in the afterglow of her parent's pride. The rush of performing was more overwhelming than she'd thought. Your parents always tell you that you're the best at whatever small endeavor you undertake, but to have a house full of people applauding you was a little different. She pressed her nose into a bushel of lilies for a long moment, breathing in the calming scent. She resignedly leaned back for a fresh breath, holding the scent in for as long as she could.

Her cloak was draped over the back of the chair. Danielle paused over it, tucking stray locks of her thick hair behind her ears, and turned to the dresser to check herself. Something suddenly caught her eye. A single red rose sat on the desk, standing off from all the other flowers by a black, silk ribbon tied around its stem. She picked it up carefully, running the smooth length of the ribbon through her fingers. She didn't know why, but something about its simplicity was alluring. It was like the essence of the night captured in a strip of fabric, dark and soft. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught its gleam in the reflection in the full length mirror. Her dark blue cloak hung elegantly from her shoulders in the mirror, and her slender fingers looked pale against the dark shade of the rose. Something strange flickered behind it though, and Danielle stalked forward carefully as she frowned at it. Behind her image, almost in it in the flat image of the mirror, was a shadow of bricks. As she paused in front of it, a draft stirred her hair. She raised her hand and felt along the glass as she tried to peer through it.

Her fingers suddenly caught in a crack along the frame. The whole mirror slid as she worked her fingers beneath it. Danielle forgot the absurdity of a door secreted in her dressing room mirror as her excitement began to build. The glass slid just enough for her to peak past it. A single flame danced in a candelabra, barely illuminating a hallway stretching away beyond the light. It flickered in the breeze that snuck into her room, blowing air that smelt damp and cool with water…

The dressing room door suddenly opened behind her, accompanied by a rush of the noise outside. Danielle hurriedly spun around, the rose clasped behind her back as she tried to cover the crack in the mirror. Jacques stuck his head in. "Come on, Danni, the coach is waiting." She should have said something, but her mind was so full of her discovery that no words came out. Jacques gaze moved to her shifting hands beneath her cloak. "What's that?"

"Just a ribbon for my hair," she started, quickly untying it from the stem and dropping the rose. Her hands deftly pulled it into a bow around her hair, and her brother shrugged and gestured for her to hurry up. Danielle followed behind him, but even after she had turned away, the image of the red rose sitting before the mirror and the candle flickering faintly behind it stuck in her head.

The next day there was no performance at the Opera. Danielle stole out of the house after breakfast and walked through the crisp Paris morning to the Rue Scribe. She slipped in her backdoor into the theater. As she slipped through the chapel, she had to pause at the door into the hallway. As hard as she listened, no music floated her way this morning. The only sound was her breathing, and she passed on with a small feeling of disappointment.

The silence in her kingdom was pristine. Instead of heading for the piano like she usually would or up to her window-room, her footsteps padded quietly trough the Opera to her dressing room. When she opened the door, the image from last night leapt back to her, the rose still sitting on the floor in front of the mirror. She draped her cloak over the same chair and knelt down to pick it up.

Her reflection in the mirror was no different from before. It stared back, an exact imitation of her as she ran her thumb over one of the petals. Its long, pale brown hair was tied back in the black ribbon, its slender arms poking out of its rolled up white sleeves on its hips, leather boots peeking out beneath its dark red skirt. Exactly the same, down to he determined set of Danielle's jaw and the undimmed light of curiosity in her dark chocolate eyes. Biting the inside of her lip, she set down the flower and worked her hands beneath the frame.

The glass ground through its runner grudgingly as she leaned her full weight against it, gritting her teeth. The cool air from the corridor beyond seeped into the room when she finally shoved the mirror far enough to stumble past it. Her footsteps echoed down the rock walls that vanished into blackness as she caught herself from tripping. The wind that threw her hair back made her gasp. It tasted wet and damp, rich like only underground could be. She smiled conspiratorially and grabbed a small lantern, her pulse rising in her ears. With one last glance at the light of her dressing room, she turned and plunged into the darkness.

The steps were slippery as she followed the way farther and deeper into the Opera. Her little sphere of light floated past empty candelabras and rock walls, shallow steps falling away beneath her feet. It all was shrouded in a silence that sent an excited shiver over Danielle, penetrated by the drip of water and her own footsteps. Pale light began to grow as she descended, a watery blue light that shimmered over the walls. And then she found the lake.

The water lapped quietly against the stone as she crouched down and dipped her fingers in it, amazed. Of course she had heard of the lake beneath the Paris Opera, but she had given up finding it. Their were passageways that led to every corner of the theater, springs that let her through locked doors and walls that shouldn't have had a door. But none of them had ever led _down_ for her. She had never smelt this wind before, this magnificently mysterious dampness that soaked into her, brushed her skin like rich fur. She lifted her lantern to look down the waterway, and the light fell on the black hull of a little boat tied up to a ring in the wall. Walking over, she pressed her hand against the black wood. A lantern hung from the prow, and as she looked she found a pole leaning against the wall. Danielle lifted her skirts and stepped into the boat, reaching out for the pole and pulling cobwebs off of it. As she pushed the boat out over the water, she started as a little silver skull looked up at her from the prow, set into a bundle of metallic roses.

The silence was almost oppressive here, a dangerous beast that had slumbered in these waterways for decades, and woe to the one who disturbed it. Danielle found herself holding her breath anxiously as she poled across the lake. The hull eventually bumped against the shallow ground of a cove, and the light from her lantern fell upon dozens of unlit candles rising from the water in wax-covered stands. She wrenched one off and held it to her lantern's flame, passing the light from wick to wick. It was a challenge, lighting them from her carefully-balanced boat. Danielle lit as far as she could stretch, and then she finally looked around.

"Mere de Dieux…" she breathed in wonder. The cove was covered with candelabras and statues, draped in curtains and guilt frames. A little Louis-Philippe room was set back above the water, and a studio was strewn with papers. Danielle stepped out of the boat feeling like she was in some chapel dedicated to art. Broken glass crunched under her boots as she climbed the hewn steps, and she lifted her eyes to see the flames of the candles refracted in shattered mirrors. Soot rippled over parts of the glass as if a flame had been held to close to it. Cracks spider-webbed over the mirrors, and Danielle briefly touched the place where the glass had completely fallen away. Her foot kicked at a candlestick as she turned back around.

Her eyes fell on a magnificent organ against the wall. It was beautiful. The pipes were pierced with intricate little designs, and the backboard was painted with scrollwork. But as the young woman stepped closer, she saw that it was covered with the same cracks as the mirrors. Soot stained the grand pipes, and a few of the keys were cracked, but it was still seemed to work. She almost prayed that it would work. Her fingers brushed over music sheets resting on the keyboard. Hand printed notes were inked on the staffs lining the paper, and she sat down lightly on the bench as she read them. Hesitantly, she arranged her hands on the keys, and the music issued forth a long, sorrowful sigh of chords that echoed off the stone. As she played, the notes sang the purest of human sorrows that it nearly brought a tear to her eye. Her fingers tripped the last lilting notes as a forlorn sigh of regret. What tortured soul had written this down? Danielle had to blink to clear her eyes as she leaned forward to touch the letters scrawled at the bottom of the page, smudged with the damp of tears. "Pitiful creature of darkness," she read softly. "An Angel in Hell," she added quietly as she stared at the words.

The soft sound of cloth swinging whispered behind her, and Danielle's fingers froze against the paper. A cold grip tightened her stomach as she heard the sound of an intake of breath, and she slowly turned her head with a feeling of dread.

The first thing she saw were his dusty, black dress shoes standing on the cracked glass. She raised her eyes to follow the fall of his thick, lined cloak, the shape of his shoulder. Twisted around on the piano bench, she finally met his eye, a beautifully luminous thing that watched her cat's eye.

"Welcome, little Angel of Music," he said. His voice left her speechless as she stared up at him. It was the most beautiful voice Danielle had ever heard, sending a shiver through her breath. She couldn't even blink as his eye and his voice captured her. He was tall, staring down at her with one pale blue eye, but he stood as if he had carried a burden on his shoulders for many years. The other half of his face was hidden behind the hand clasped over it. He took a deep, tremulous breath as he studied her.

"Fo-forgive me, monsieur," she cried, breaking the pensive silence. She started up and pressed her back against the keyboard, still unable to tear her eyes from his. How he watched her, as if he could see into her soul and tell her everything… "I didn't know anyone…I though…I'm so sorry, monsieur…"

"Please," he broke in, forestalling her with a raised hand. "S'il vous plait, mademoiselle, don't apologize." He seemed afraid she would be frightened and bolt like a timid deer; he awkwardly pulled off his cape with one hand while keeping the other over his face. It dropped over an empty candle stand, and he held his hand out disarmingly. "Be at ease, little Angel."

But Danielle couldn't stop her racing heart. Every legend of the Opera, every fragmented detail she had managed to pry from her parents, flew through her mind. She couldn't help but think she had finally stumbled too far into her secret world of the theater, too close to the shadow that hung ominously over each shred of story she had collected.

"Who..." she had to lick her lips as he turned away, letting her breathe as he took his eyes with him. "Who are you?" He picked up something white from beside his cape. When he turned back, Danielle found herself staring at the half-moon face from the night before, bowing to her from the rafters. His face was hidden behind a pale mask, his bright eye the only thing moving behind it. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You…!" she whispered fearfully, her eyes wide.

The expression that fell over the phantom's face paralyzed any other words. He opened his mouth and raised his hands again, his eyes flooding with a long-borne sorrow that nearly choked him. He stopped with his arms outstretched to her, as if he suddenly found himself anathema, and dropped them back to his side in shame. His face set in a grim cast hard and distant enough to match the unmoving mask, and he spun on his heel to snatch up his cloak before the young woman could realize what she had done. Two strides brought him back to the velvet draped frame with the broken glass before it. "Wait!" Danielle called, "please, don't go."

The phantom paused, shrouded like a shade in his black cloak, and turned to look at her from behind his mask. He slowly, painfully brought his eye to meet her. "What do you want of me?" he asked, the angelic cadence of his voice dissolved into a throat tight with tears.

Danielle's words were lost as she watched him. She stood in silence beside the organ, staring down at him as e hulked against the frame. Everything she had heard of him had illustrated a monster, a horrid demon of darkness that would kill as soon as look at you. But the man she saw standing before her was no more than a man, a tortured soul, shunned by the world and wary of the light which had so badly burned him before.

He blinked, and she realized with a start that she still hadn't answered him. What could she ask a man so plagued by sorrow?

"What's your name?" she finally asked.

The phantom blinked in surprise and drew back from the frame. He studied her eyes intently, and she knew that he could somehow see straight into her soul. "My name?" he repeated in a low tone. "That is what you want to know, Danielle Daae de Chagny? The phantom's name?" He laughed quietly under his breath, but when she did nothing, he stopped, perplexed. A strange glimmer came into his eyes as he considered her, an unexpected softness melting his features. Danielle waited expectantly, relaxing away from the keyboard. He finally averted his eyes and in a soft, cracked voice, said, "Erik."

"Erik…" she repeated. Danielle rested her hand on the sheets of music. "And these…these are yours?" Erik's gaze shifted to the papers, and he nodded. Slowly, warily, he came up the steps to stand on the other side of the instrument.

"My _Don Juan_," he said. The young woman stepped back, letting him closer to the bench, inviting him to play. Watching her, he cautiously sat and began to play. Under the hands of its composer, Erik's music was as terrible and beautiful as a storm. It shook the very heavens. Danielle found herself drawn forward to perch on the edge of the bench. Such power flowed through the music that she felt it tugging at her own soul, urging her to play. The music was more intoxicating than the flowers from the night before, and her hands lifted of their own accord to echo Erik's notes. She was so engrossed with it that she barely realized that he had surrendered the top part to her, drawn away to the edge of the bench as she leaned over to play both parts. He subtly pulled away, watching her still. His eyes traced the line of her neck until they rested on the black ribbon hanging over her shoulder.

"You found my rose," he murmured, and abruptly rose from the bench. Danielle's fingers faltered as he disappeared, and she stopped to twist around on the bench. The last strains of the music died away so quickly they left an uneasy silence in their place. "You should not have come here," he growled angrily. "You must go back." He snatched up the pole and leapt into the boat, turning back to fix her with a hard gaze. "Come." When she did not rise, he added ominously, "or I will make you."

She stared at him in confusion, strangely rooted to her seat on the bench. When she failed to move, he suddenly jumped back out of the boat and up the steps. He caught her arm in a painful grip and pulled her to the water mercilessly. Startled by his wildly shifting mood, Danielle dug her heels in. "Let me go!" she cried out, trying to free her arm from him.

And he did. Erik let go of her as if suddenly burned, so quickly that Danielle staggered back and fell on the steps. He gasped and leaned heavily against the wall. The girl watched in growing confusion as he shuddered with a terrible sob and growled at her over his shoulder. "Are you here to torment me, child? Have you been sent to exact a more painful revenge than Christine and Raoul have already laid on me? To haunt me like I have this Opera for so long?" His eyes blazed when he turned to look at her. "Well!" he shouted, yet even as he did, he shied against the wall as if afraid to touch her.

_What has happened to you?_ Danielle thought as she stood up. "None of that, Erik," she said. What else could she say? He sighed and placed his head in his hand, sliding it over the porcelain of his mask. Danielle couldn't seem to help but reach out a tremulous hand to it. "Why…" she began.

"Don't," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. Such sorrow was in his eyes when he looked up at her that her hand paused, wavering uncertainty. "No matter how curious you may be, child, you must not truly wish to see what lies behind this mask." He took her hand and folded it in his own. "Please, Angel, believe at least that."

His plea caught her unawares, froze her to floor. In her hesitation, Erik looked away and walked past her. She heard him get into the boat again, the hull bobbing gently in the waters, but all she could manage was to turn her head and look at him. All of his rage was gone. He stood waiting for her without even acknowledging her presence, and she could do nothing but follow him. She sat quietly in the prow and anxiously listened for any sound from the silent figure behind her, but he seemed barely to breathe.

At the edge of the water, he stepped out and took the lantern from the prow, holding it aloft to light the darkness. He held out his hand to her silently. Hesitantly, Danielle rested her fingers lightly in his gloved palm, and he seemed to take her hand without ever truly touching it.

The climb was a world apart from her descent, now led by the solemn figure of the phantom ahead of her. "You live down here, all alone?" she finally asked in a hushed voice, glancing around in the darkness. Only his pale mask appeared over the high collar of his cape as he looked back at her. "For how long?"

"Longer than you have been alive," he replied distantly. "It is a phantom's place to live alone, isn't it?" In the darkness she couldn't see his face, but she felt the underlying resignation in his words, the acceptance of his dark fate. She cast one despairing glance back at the darkness they were climbing from. A shiver climbed her spine, imagining a life completely alone in the depths, shunned from the world. Erik glanced back at her, and his hand tightened on her briefly.

The light of her dressing room was blinding after the darkness of the cellars. The moment her feet touched the floor she heard the glass begin to slide shut behind her. "Wait," she said, spinning around. Erik paused, truly a phantom in the blackness of the corridor. Danielle suddenly felt an undeniable need to keep him out of the suffocating dark he was returning to. As she searched for an excuse, she remembered the music he had played. "Practice with me."

For the second time he blinked at her in surprise. A strange expression crossed his face, an almost imperceptible smile. Danielle waited anxiously, and with a flourish of his cloak he drew retreated into the corridor. "Meet me there." She smiled and grabbed her cloak. The corps de ballet was gone today, but Danielle raced to the stage, still silent as a wraith.

Inside the house, she stalked down the aisles and leapt nimbly into the orchestral pit. The score for Hannibal lay on the piano's keyboard, the performance for the next night. Danielle did not have a part in the opera, but she was always the one to help in rehearsals at the piano. She looked around, back into the house, but no one was there.

Her ears pricked at the sound of a soft creak and hush of shoes. The girl turned around and started to see Erik standing on the stage. Not even realizing it, she stepped onto the piano bench and boosted herself onto the stage, scrutinizing the floor. "The trap-doors lead to the passageway behind the mirror?" He was silent for a long time, and Danielle blushed when she looked up and found him with a bemused expression on his face. He swept past her into the pit, turning back and putting his hands on her waist to lift her down. He guided her to rest on the bench. "Play for me, Angel."

Her fingers moved deftly over the keys. After about five minutes, he motioned for her to stop. "You don't need my help child," he said simply. "You have a great gift. The talent of your mother shines in you. And your father's courage runs in your veins." Color climbed in her cheeks, but Erik graciously ignored it. "You do not need my help to sing, either. Your breathing needs some work, and you sound more a mezzo-soprano than a soprano, but you can sing with a passion that took your mother months to discover. There is nothing you need me for." He turned away, and his fingers brushed over the neck of a violin. He picked up the bow for a moment, studying it. Danielle regarded him, wondering what drove this strange man. He had been listening that closely to her the night before? For a moment, he looked about to play the violin, but with a humorless laugh, he drew back from the instrument.

"Can you play?" Danielle asked from the piano. When Erik's gaze fell on her, she had to lick her lips it was so intense. "My grandfather played the fiddle."

"I know." She frowned in surprise, yet he said nothing. Instead, he picked up the violin and walked up to the stage, setting the bow to the strings.

All thought of her singing, of her grandfather she had never met, vanished as he pulled the bow. Christine's daughter watched in awe as the strains of the 'Resurrection of Lazarus' floated from the instrument. Erik shut his eyes against the memory of Christine listening with the same expression of rapture on her young face so many years ago as he played for her on her father's violin. In spite of his efforts, images of the graveyard rose unwanted in his mind, haunting him, taunting him. He heard the child step up onto the stage, in his mind saw Christine by her father's grave, the Vicomte following her through the snow. Just as the chords of Lazarus opening his eyes would have played, Erik stopped, the bow suspended in his quivering hand. With a ragged breath, he shook his head, fighting to free it from his memories.

Danielle reached out a hand to touch his shoulder at his obvious pain. "I can't," he said. "I can't. Oh, Christi—"

The door to the front of the Opera shut with a loud thud. The two on the stage froze. With a single flourish of his cape, the phantom stepped to the trap-door and was gone, leaving Danielle alone. She started and turned back to the theater as the house door creaked open.

Madame Giry stood silhouetted against the bright daylight before the door shut behind her. She and Danielle stared at each other suspiciously, neither expecting to find another in the Opera. The ballet instructor recovered her composure and gathered her shawl closer as she glided briskly down the deserted aisle.

"What are you doing here today, Mlle Daae?" she asked in her lilting accent. Danielle shifted and clasped her hands behind her back out of habit.

"Nothing, Madame Giry," she said obsequiously. "I though you were out wit the corps de ballet today. Where's Maurice?" At the edge of her vision, she thought she glimpsed a shadow slip onto the high balcony encircling the chandelier.

"I returned for the afternoon," she said, indignant at explaining herself to Danielle. The instructor gained the stage and lifted her chin to stare the girl in he eye. "My grandson is with Meg. The corps does not require my constant attention." Her tone made it all too obvious that the same did not apply to Mlle Daae. "I overheard voices. Are you here with someone, Miss Danielle?"

The young woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the balcony. Madame Giry caught the direction of her gaze and turned to look herself, but the entire theater was deserted, silent as a grave. It must have been Danielle's imagination that she heard the faint sound of a violin still playing far off.

"Be careful alone in this Opera house, child," the dame said at last. She turned away and walked across the stage into the wings, her footsteps clicking faintly. "More dangerous things than shadows and legends have haunted this stage." And she disappeared without ever looking back.

Danielle released her breath gratefully. She was alone in the house again, but there was no sound of music anymore. She sent one fleeting look at the door hidden in the balcony before returning to the piano.

High above, Erik crouched in the shadow of the unlit chandelier. He held his mask in his hands, following the smooth contours with his fingertips. The phantom frowned faintly at the slight quiver in his hand. It was her, Danielle. Something about her made him feel strange, as if she were forcing him to look into a mirror at himself. At Erik, the features of his greatest, irreparable failure. She was like a ghost from his past, conjuring images of Christine and that great tragedy. The child didn't even know what had happened between her parents and the phantom

He had thought she was Christine. When he first came through the broken frame in his home and saw her sitting at the organ, he had thought it was Christine. He had been surprised when a feeling more of dread than joy had come over him. But then something about her hair, the way she sat, made him think of the vicomte. Her eyes, when she had finally turned to look at him, had been all together different. They held a curiosity, a knowledge and quiet comfort that he had never seen before. The feel of her fingers in his lingered on his palm. It felt like comfort after a nightmare that wakes you in the middle of the night. But Erik had never had that reassurance. This felt familiar, almost poignant. The small, delicate feeling of remorse and pity that he had felt in her hand when he told her lived there was more than he had ever felt before.

Clutching his mask, Erik stood and disappeared back into the shadows of his domain.


	2. The Wandering Child

Chapter 2

Danielle arrived back home just as dark was falling. The lovely town house door swung open quietly, and she hung her cloak on a peg and walked into the sitting room to find everyone sitting in the plush chairs around the fire. Jacques had invited Nicola over again, and the two sat beside each other, the young man with his arm over her shoulder. Raoul and Christine sat across from them, the vicomte with his fingers laced through Christine's on the arm of her chair. Danielle paused inside the doorway, careful to keep quiet.

"So how did you and M. le Vicomte meet, Madame Daae?" Nicola was asking. The two in question had their backs to the doorway, and didn't see Danielle tense anxiously. Christine laughed, light and dismissive, but their daughter saw her hand squeeze her husband's.

"I'm sure you've already heard all about it, Nicola."

"But only rumors, madame. What really happened?" She leaned forward, and Jacques and Danielle imitated her. Even her older brother was intrigued, although he normally left such snooping to his sister. The siblings were more curious than the rest of Paris, considering how no one shared the rumors with them.

"We met at the Opera," Raoul said, "had our secret engagement, and ran off to have a quiet wedding in Scandinavia."

"What about your daring rescue from that terrible genius? The disaster with Don Juan and the chandelier? Is all that true?" Danielle and Jacques echoed her in their minds. Is it true?

"He was a terrible genius," Christine murmured, her eyes fixed on the distant past. Danielle's breath caught as she though of Erik whispering her name with such pain just before Madame Giry had interrupted them. "But with such a twisted soul…"

"It wasn't much of a rescue, though," Raoul added as he stared at the fire. "Christine saved me from the monster, not me her."

"What about Don Juan?" Danielle asked with bated breath, drawing attention to herself for the first time. Raoul and Christine looked back at her, shaking off their secret past.

"Danielle, what have you been up to all day?" Christine asked genuinely. The opportunity slipped through Danielle's fingers like smoke. Just like it always did.

"Practicing," she admitted dejectedly, which was true. After Erik had vanished and the strains of the violin long died away, she had eventually managed to rise from her thoughts and played her own composition. Christine and Raoul were still watching her, and Danielle suddenly feared that her father's sharp gaze would see right through her. His eyes were so familiar that a guilty lump formed in her throat.

"I'm just going to clean up," she said, and after Christine nodded she swept back and hurried up the stairs. At the top, she had to stop and lean against the banister.

It had been years ago, and she had barely been ten. It was late at night, and Raoul was just coming up those stairs. She had called him quietly from her bed, and her father had opened the door to see her sitting up on her pillows.

"What are you still doing up, dear?" he asked, coming to sit on the edge of her bed. He pulled the covers up around her as she burrowed happily beneath them. His blue-gray eyes were smiling as he patted her hair.

"Papa?" she asked with childlike innocence. He waited while she built up her little well of courage before speaking again. "Who's the Opera Ghost? I heard Maurice's mom talking about him, but she wouldn't tell us anything." His hand stilled on her soft hair, the exact color of his. His eyes became distant, and the covers she had been so comfortably wrapped in suddenly lost their warmth.

"You mustn't ask me that, dear." Something in his eyes seemed to close off to her, and she felt very lonely as he patted her arm. "It's not a story for nights such as these." He sat very still on the edge of her bed, staring at her but not seeing her.

It was then that Danielle had leaned that if she wanted to know anything, she would have to find it for herself. The Opera Ghost had brought great pain to her parents, and she never wanted to see that look in her father's eyes again from something she had done.

But could that sadness really have had to do with Erik? She had only thought of him as the phantom the moment she realized who he was. Then she had only seen Erik. She had never seen such sorrow in a man before, like he had no heart left, just an empty place filled with pain.

---

He sat on a grave. An unmarked grave, covered in cold, unfeeling snow. The wind blew indifferently past him, trying to pull at his hair. He looked up into it, glaring at it as it brushed his mask, his face. Strains of music suddenly flowed through it, and he looked up.

Wandering child, so lost, so helpless

Yearning for my guidance…

He searched the graveyard, but nothing appeared around him. A great mausoleum rose up nearby, and the gates stood open, a single torch flickering in the cold wind.

Angel of Music, friend or phantom

Who is it there staring?

Angel, oh speak, what endless longing

Echoes in this whisper

A graceful figure appeared on the steps out of nowhere, and he rose to his feet. She was draped in white, her back to him.

Too long you've wandered in winter,

Far from my far-reaching gaze.

Wildly your mind beats against me,

But your soul obeys!

His steps carried him closer, up the steps.

Angel of Music, do not shun me,

Come to me strange Angel.

And she turned around. The white sheet fell away from her shoulders, and he found himself staring at Danielle. The girl was shrouded in a thick opera cape he was sure was his own, and she stretched out a hand to him as dark wings unfurled from her back. She held her hand out, beckoning him into the grave. Her voice descended into something dark and otherworldly as she sang.

I am your Angel of Music.

Come to me Angel of Music…

Erik woke up in the Louis-Philippe room, staring up at the ceiling. Now that was strange. He had seen the girl twice now, in two days, and he was having nightmares about her?

He sat up with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. The lake water was cold and shocked him awake as he splashed it onto his face. Why had he called her Angel? She had been in his house, playing his music at his organ. He should have erupted in rage. But she had played it so well. Music ran off her fingers like water from a stream. It was an oasis after a long desert, a drink for such a thirsty soul. It had brought a part of him back to life he had long thought dead and buried, the music he had given up when Christine had left.

With a shake of his head, he grabbed his opera cape and hopped into the boat. He paused for a moment in putting it on, but then shrugged and threw it around his shoulders anyway. The opera was silent as he stalked through it; he came to the window-room above the theater through a different way than the girl went. He filled the space like a living shadow.

A grim smile crossed his face as he picked up his old memorandum-book. So the management had finally worked up the guts to get rid of it. Well, he had no need for it now, anyway. But his gaze lingered on the worn folder beneath it. Notes covered the one crisp paper he pulled out, and a few more pieces slipped out with it. For the first time in long years, a real genuine smile graced his lips. His gloved hands turned through the rest of the papers, and he picked up the whole folder before turning away.

---

Danielle didn't have the Opera to herself again for an entire week. MM. Moncharmin and Richard were eager to perform and bring in the profits. Consequentially, Mercier took every opportunity to test young Miss Daae de Chagny. She was cast into as many supporting or secondary roles as the maestro could find, and Danielle found herself wishing more and more that she could play the piano at performances and not just rehearsals. She hadn't been able to touch a keyboard in days.

The midmorning of the eighth day found her scaling the catwalks towards the window-room, singing quietly to herself. She sang best like this, alone, with only her theater to listen to her. The little door opened on silent hinges she made sure to keep well oiled, flooding the dark corridor it was concealed in with dusty light from the window. She skipped down the stairs and leaned over the view; the window beneath her cast spectral shadows on her face and walls, giving her wings. As she hummed, she reached out her hand for the folder with her music in it.

Hard wood met her fingertips. Her humming died abruptly, and when the glanced she turned on her hand helped no more. She knelt down to search the floor, but the small space only offered up the old memorandum-book leaning against the steps, a different place than where she had last set it down. Anxiety suddenly lifted the hair on the back of her arm. Danielle gathered her skirts and grabbed at the corner of the room where a thin gap led to a passage that cut through the higher floors all the way to the roof. The wall here projected out at a shallow slope, and the girl jumped up it and into the hall.

In the dim light she searched the floor, but her folder wasn't here either. Danielle's music had vanished. Her pulse jumped nervously, fearfully that someone had found it and taken it. Or worse, someone had discovered her room, her secrets. She knelt down and searched the dust floorboards, searching and groping along the dark floor. Her hand suddenly rested on a bit of boards cleared of dust, and she traced a footprint farther than she had gone. The dust around it was swept as if something low had dragged over it. Wide-eyed in the weak light, Danielle reached out her hand and found another footprint, and another, all swept over with a long cloak.

"Erik," she whispered. Her hand hovered over the floor now, and she stared off sightlessly into the hallway. Of course he would know the hallways and secret passages better than anyone. As she slid back into the window-room, she couldn't help but wonder why he would have taken her music. What could he want with it, when he could shake the earth and drive angels to weep with his own?

When she reached her dressing room, her arms were tangled around her cloak, a lantern, a small jar of grease and a rag. She awkwardly shoved the door open with her hip and dropped it all onto the armchair. Pushing her hair back behind her ear, she scooped up the jar and rag and dropped to a seat on the floor before the mirror.

This time, the mirror budged with an infernal squeal, like a beast in pain. Danielle cursed as if shrieked and protested all the way down its track. She barely managed to restrain herself running down to the cellars to reclaim her music. Instead, she sat and worked the grease into the track diligently, appeasing the shrieking banshee of the mirror as she slid it back and forth. By the time she finished, the secret door slid at her bidding, moving with the pressure of a breeze. With a triumphant grin, Danielle clambered back to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed as she admired her handiwork.

The color suddenly drained from her face as she slid the mirror back and caught sight of the reflection. Sitting on the desk, just where the rose had been, was her folder. She turned around slowly and reached out her hand almost tentatively, doubting its reality. Had it been there this whole time? The thing was real, the worn, soft leather familiar under her palm. All of her papers were in it, even in the order she had left them. But they were in the wrong room. She glanced at the mirror warily.

As she started to leaf through the paper, the tense feeling in her fingers gave way until she reached the end of the stack. Something in her chest quivered as two odd sheets slipped out. Red ink was formed into dozens of flowing notes over the staves dividing the papers, scrawled in the same quick script of inspiration that enameled Danielle's own work. Even written in notation, it still had a strange look to it, reflecting the strange script in the memorandum-book. A breathless knot worked its way around her heart, and it tugged her urgently to the door. Her fingers began to itch for the keys, and with one last glance at the mirror she spun on her heel. Soon she was running through the house, the silence wavering in her wake until it closed back on itself like water. The music flamed into life like the strike o f a match, flowing through the Opera like a hidden serpent beneath the lake. It sang her sad song, though its player hardly noticed it in her anxious state. She held her breath as she turned to the scarlet paper, fearing the serpent to be a roaring dragon about to engulf her.

The first chord sang out, and she exhaled in surprise. It was so much softer than she had expected, moving seamlessly with her own. The notes were the quiet lament of the blind, yearning to see the light but only able to settle with the warm touch of fire. The cry of the hidden afraid to be found. Her hand brushed the sheet aside to the next red page, but the next chord pierced the memory of the last with a painfully flat discord.

Wincing, Danielle shook her hand and peered closer at the page. The key was different, and written beneath the measures were lyrics in neat, tiny script. At the head of she page, sketched in flowing and curling letters, were the words "Past the Point of No Return." It wasn't even edited for piano, but in a second stand were the notes for the lyrics. The margins were filled with what looked like stage instructions.

Intrigued, Danielle gently picked up the page and jumped up to the stage. She stole one furtive look around the theater before beginning to sing.

_You have brought me to that moment where words run dry_

_To that moment when speech disappears into silence…silence… _

Daae's voice echoed across the empty velvet seats as she followed the notes. The theater grew silent with the fervor of the hidden listening. Danielle let passion leak into her voice as she became caught up in the music. Half way down the page she shut her eyes and let go completely, singing all the louder.

_When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us_

And a voice of thunder suddenly answered her, singing with her.

_Past the point of no return, the final threshold._

_The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn_

Danielle's voice faded as Erik shed the shadows and swept across the stage, a raven unfurling his wings. She watching him sing with such a light in his eyes that her fingers tightened around the folder again.

_We've past the point of no return… _

His voice echoed through the theater, and Danielle shut her eyes as she tried to gather the last dying notes. Such power was in his voice that she nearly forgot to breathe when he stopped. As he drew closer, he slowed to a halt before her, as if she stood on a hilltop that had slowed his charge. She took a tremulous breath as she opened her eyes. "This is your _Don Juan_ ?"

His hands sank back to his sides, and he nodded without taking his eyes from her. Those eyes…Now she knew what that strange power in them was. "Yes, Angel, this is my _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was meant to be an opera. You sing it very well."

She ran her thumb unconsciously over one of the margins. "Has it ever been played?" she asked tentatively.

"Only once," he replied softly, a lion's growl. His eyes fixed on hers, waiting for her to incriminate him. Questions swelled in her throat, demands to know what had happened, why it was so secret. She had held her tongue for so long. But Erik seemed to have held it longer. While his words were a predator's, his back was that of a beaten dog. His eyes threatened her to ask, to dare and rekindle some past rage, and yet pleaded to be relieved of that terrible memory.

"Why only once?"

"Because I left after that," he said, turning away to pace across the stage, taking his eyes with him. Danielle was surprised to find that she almost wanted them back. The sorrow deep in them was like whatever this memory was: something he needed to share before it crushed him, drowned him beneath it.

"Why?" The wall of his back paused.

"Why," Erik repeated mournfully. "That was the night I took your mother with me to the cellars. The night Paris learned of the Opera Ghost." His gaze was lost to his world, his back still to Danielle. "I held your father's life in my hands, that night. But I gave it back. I gave it back…because Christine wanted it. She was willing to sacrifice her own for it." His pale eyes were veiled with the mist of years past, and he didn't hear her step closer.

"But you came back?" Danielle thought he hadn't heard her. He stood, statuesque, staring out over his Opera as if she didn't exist.

"This is my home. I could find no better place for me."

Than his prison. No one to want him.

Danielle stopped behind him, her hand half outstretched to touch his shoulder, and drew it back. She forced her eyes down to the folder, feeling like she was intruding, watching Erik stare out over his theater. His prison.

"It's so easy to play," she mused to herself, looking over the red paper again. Erik's sigh pulled her head back up.

"It always is," he despaired, "always so easy to make believe." He finally turned back to look at her, standing there staring at him with the folder in her hands. His pale eyes flicked over it as he realized she had said that about the music. "You're composing is the best I've heard in this Opera," he said without the slightest flicker of uneasiness.

"How did you do it?" she praised. "I can play yours as if I wrote it myself."

"All music is a story, little Angel," he explained, and she thought she saw something dark and wary pass over his face for a moment. But it must have been her imagination again, because he paused for only a moment. "It says things that words could never convey. You are a great storyteller, Danielle. It was not difficult." Her heart quickened unexpectedly as she realized what he had said. He had never used her name before, not like that. He looked about to say something else, but instead gestured down at the piano. "Would you play it for me?"

Danielle took a long time searching for something to say when there really was nothing. She longed to say something to those eyes, those eyes that held all the sadness in the world beneath a glaze of power. She finally dropped down into the pit and sat at the piano, regretfully slipping the scarlet paper into the back and pulling out her own. Maybe she should get some colored ink. Erik lingered over her shoulder quietly, and his presence behind her kept fumbling her fingers. His warm breath suddenly whispered close to her ear.

"I'm a phantom, Angel. I'm not even here." He turned the page and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. A faint, wistful smile passed over her lips, and she found her notes shedding their hesitation.

He listened admirably. It reminded him so much of his own Don Juan. It was a masquerade, a tale of hiding behind masks. It was the sad sound of longing, of a game of pretend played out long past its end. A lonely soul hiding from the world, observing what it could never be a part of. Of the blind longing to see the light. His thumb unconsciously caressed her shoulder as he listened to the music beneath her fingers. It seemed almost natural when she leaned slightly into his touch.

"A pen," she suddenly murmured, and twisted around so abruptly that Erik started back. She reached past him to grab a pen off a nearby stand and twirled it lightly through her fingers as she played with the other. He was drawn back by the edge of the stage, afraid that she had shunned his touch. After a moment, she paused in her scribbling as if something were missing. Her gaze fell on his again, an overpowering creative light in her eyes. "Come, Erik," she said gently, shifting down the bench. "Would you help me?" She seemed so eager to get back to composing that he found himself sitting just to appease her. She smiled at him shyly, then bit the pen between her teeth to play with both hands.

The phantom shook his head as she smiled around the pen before pulling it from her teeth to note it down. In the small lull, he slipped in. He gently took the pen from her hand as she tried to return it to her teeth. His hand played a few notes and added them to the sheet, cautiously ignoring Danielle's subtle wisp of a smile. She played a few more measures, dancing in tandem with his. She led, Erik circumspectly recording their waltz. They danced past either's sense of time, lost in the music.

At last, Danielle dropped back from the dance, stifling a yawn behind her fist. "I should go," she said, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. She started to gather her papers, but Erik took them from her hands.

"I'll take them." At her dubious expression, he tried to turn the rictus his lips were familiar with into an amiable grin. He finally had to make do with patting the folder protectively. "I'll put them where they belong. Tomorrow, they'll be right where you expect them. I promise." He itched to ask her if she would be willing to sing with him again, to play his own Don Juan with him. He was like a man so long deprived of water that he found himself begging for every last drop, yearning for music.

She watched him for a long second before nodding. "All right." After they passed a strange silence, Danielle rose and gathered her cloak. Erik looked after her as she strode up the aisle and swung the cloak around her shoulders. She walked slowly, not wanting to leave. At the doors, she paused, glancing back into the dim house as she fingered the grain beneath her palm. Her other hand rested over her chest lightly, where something other than pity stirred, something she had never felt before.

"Good night, Erik," she called softly, almost shyly, and shut the door behind her.

The door closed with a resonant thud in the thick silence that followed. Erik stood, frozen in amazement. The folder slipped from his suddenly numb fingers with a flurry of papers, like birds leaping into flight. They fluttered themselves into silence while the phantom stood, and suddenly started back into life. He vaulted out of the orchestral pit and rushed up the aisle. By the time he reached the doors, he threw them open and raced into the grand foyer. His flight carried him up until he finally broke free into the dusky twilight of the old Emperor's entrance. The murky light disguised him against the Opera's façade, and he crept forward to peer down at the main boulevard, an eagle peering down from its eyrie. Just disappearing down the street was a dark blue cloak, a black ribbon trailing in the breeze from her hair. At the corner of the Paris Opera, Danielle turned around and lifted her head to look up at the roof. The poor phantom forgot to breathe as she seemed to pick him out against the fading sky. Then she turned and was gone, leaving Erik fingering the chains of his solitude.


	3. Abandoning Defenses

Ch 3 – Abandoning Defenses

Danielle stood on the stoop before the house on Rue Rivoli. Her breath condensed in a little cloud before her in the cool early morning, and she stamped her foot as she waited for the door to open. Autumn was beginning to descend upon France, the trees changing color, frost rimming the windows. It made her morning trip to the Opera feel even more secretive as she bundled herself inside her hooded cloak. She glanced around the street casually, and blew on her fingertips to keep them warm.

The doorknob's mechanics clicked and the door opened, revealing Darius in a neat jacket and a welcoming smile. "Ah, good morning, Mlle. De Chagny," he said formally, stepping back to let her in. She smiled as the warmth of the house enveloped her and let Darius take her cloak, shutting the cold out with the door.

"Bonjour, Darius. Comment ca va?"

"Oh very well, mademoiselle," he replied and gestured down the corridor. Danielle padded down the thick Persian carpet, Darius following behind, and stopped at the entrance to the main parlor. A man was sitting by the window with a table propped open on the table. When he saw her, he smiled and shut the book. His dark skin was set off by the rich color of his silk robe as he stood.

"Mlle Daae!" the Persian greeted. She smiled and let him kiss her cheek before returning the _bis_.

"Daroga," she laughed, clasping his arms. Behind them, Darius stoically disappeared into the hallway to make some tea. Danielle had been coming to have tea with the Persian for years; the enigmatic foreigner was a frequenter of the Opera and a close family friend. He had helped Raoul find Christine, but beyond that vague fact he only offered allusions and temptations.

But the Daroga was always willing to give her stories.

He drew her back to the table by the window and offered her a chair. His familiar astrakhan cap was missing, but he didn't often wear it in the comfort of his own flat. He returned to his own seat and studied her for a moment in the crisp morning light filtering through the window.

"Why, Miss de Chagny, you're positively beaming. What has you smiling so?" Danielle blushed.

"Yesterday was very…productive, dear Daroga. You know how I love to have the Opera to myself." She smiled secretly to herself, though. Three pages. They had written three pages last night! Danielle was beginning to view the day as only an advent to when she would see Erik again, when they could sing and compose until sleep overcame them both.

The Persian smiled through her thoughts. "So you have found some new passage or room, then. I'm not surprised." Danielle snatched gratefully at his assumption. It was partly true, after all. The Persian was one of the few who new of the theater's secret warren of hallways and doors, though he never asked Danielle where she had found them. He had evens shown her a few when she was younger, but he always claimed that they were simply shortcuts. What she had were truly secrets.

Well, a secret between her and Erik.

Danielle couldn't pull the smile from her face, so, fearful the Persian would inquire further, she stood and went to the bookshelf. Between dusty tomes and gilt bindings were myriad trinkets: blown glass, a few photographs, ad figures from Persia that never failed to draw her eye. She traced a few of the leather bindings idly, pulling a book or two out.

Something else caught her attention, though. Two silver rings no bigger than the middle of her palm glinted in the light from the window, resting on top of a box holding an old reliable pistol. Danielle had already asked him about the firearm dozens of times, each one more indistinct than the last. The two little rings were an untold story, though. They were attached together, jangling around in a loop, but they were seamless. They reminded her of the legerdemain carnival folk played, pulling them apart and rejoining them with a flourish of hands. She picked them up and started inspecting them with deft fingers. At the table, the Persian took his tea and watched her as he poured.

"Bring those here, mademoiselle," he said balancing the thin china on his ebony fingertips. Danielle turned and dangled the pair from a hooked finger.

"I'm a little old for magic ticks, monsieur," she admitted. She gave the two rings a tug so that they clacked together, but handed them over anyway.

"I am a little high in rank for them myself," he offered in his lilting accent. "I was daroga in Persian, as you so often call me. But these have always entertained me." His hands went just so, and with a swift twist he pulled them apart. Danielle hid her child-like smile as she sat down. The Persian placed the rings in her hand before picking up his drink again. "They were given to me by a man who knew much more interesting tricks than that, but I couldn't help but admire their simplicity."

"What's the trick?" she asked, scrutinizing them again, each in turn. The Persian adopted a knowing smile and set down his tea, holding his fingertips on the rim.

"That, dear girl, is not a trick that can be learned through wisdom or sagacity. It's something worse: this can only be learned with age." Danielle frowned at him and stopped inspecting the rings, but the daroga became taciturn. His dark eyes, instead, inspected her intently. He finally leaned back and sipped his tea again.

The two sat in the plush velvet seats of Box Five, leaning back in the warm light of the gas lamps. Danielle kept her eyes shut as Erik pushed the warm mug into her hands. She heard him sit down in the seat across from her as she breathed in the steam.

"Go on," he prompted, and she could hear the smile in his voice. Her lips brushed the mug's rim, and she took a cautious sip. It wasn't tea like she had expected; it was rich and thick as it slid down her throat. Rich like…

"Hot chocolate?" she said in surprise, opening her eyes to look at Erik. He was smiling above the rim of his own mug.

"Straight from Spain," he said with a nod, licking his lips. "It's so much better than coffee. Bitter stuff, even in Persia."

Danielle smiled and curled up comfortably in the plush seat. She pulled her legs up onto the cushion with her so she could rest the warm porcelain on her knees. "So you've been to Spain, then? And Persia?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't go back to Persia." He fell very quiet and took a long drink from his hot chocolate. Danielle feared for a moment that she had delved to deeply, hit to close to some painful mark. Over the weeks they had grown to know each other, she had learned that there were just some things Erik didn't want to discuss. Mostly they were parts of his past shrouded in mist, memories that he didn't speak of not as much because he didn't want her to know, but because he didn't want to think of them. After a moment he looked out over the theater again. "What about you? Where have you been?"

"Not far," she sighed, glad that it had only been a momentary lapse into that awkward silence. She feared that silence like a poison; she couldn't help but think of it as a great chasm spreading between them. But it came so rarely now that she barely thought of it. "Our estates in Chagny, of course. But besides that, only Scandinavia. It's wonderful up there, so close to the sea. I'd stand out on the beach for hours listening to the waves. I'd be there so long I could mark the tides coming and going. I'd go in soaked with sea spray, the smell of water in my bones, to sit by the fires and listen to stories all night. Sometimes I think that's where the music started, in my head while I was listening to the pulse of the sea. It still frightens me sometimes, the power of it all. The music…sometimes its so insistent to be written down, to be played. It makes you forget to eat, to sleep, to breathe. It just consumes you with a…a…" She paused, trying to search for the right word.

"A passion." She looked back at Erik, who had the same look of understanding in his eyes. Danielle nodded with her faint wisp of a smile. "It's like the pulse that drives your blood. I know it well." He rose from his seat and went to the little shelf in the back of the lodge to pour himself some more drink.

"Would you like another cup?" She blinked and looked down at her mug still half full. Erik shrugged and sat back down, taking a long drink.

"You like chocolate, don't you?" The smile that grew on her face made him scowl at her. "Don't you!"

"Alright, fine, I do. I have it so rarely, no one to buy it for."

"Why don't you buy it for yourself?" He shrugged again. The topic of his mask didn't seem to even register in either of their minds. Danielle ran her finger around the edge of the mug, thinking curiously. "Well, if you don't like bitter you can't like dark chocolate. Milk chocolate's what's in this, so…?"

"White," he interrupted. Danielle smiled at him playfully, and he nearly couldn't manage his scowl over his smile. "What?" he snapped.

"Nothing," she laughed. "I'll just have to get us a box. You can come to the house by the sea, and we'll sit and eat white chocolates all night." She laughed again, and Erik actually chuckled. It was a wonderful sound, rare and precious like diamonds. "Tell me about Spain, then." He abruptly set down his mug and stood, offering her his hand.

"I'll do better and show you." Danielle stared at his hand for a moment before putting down her cup and standing up. He led her down through the deserted stairway to the stage. Danielle waited curiously in the dim light as he searched through a costume closet. "In Spain, dancing is to them what music is to France. And since we are in a theater, we might as well take advantage. I brought these up fro the next time we sang _Don Juan_." When he turned around he had a beautiful, lacy dress folded over one arm. Danielle gasped and lifted it up, admiring it. "It's Aminta's dress," he said, referring to the lead part Danielle always sang. Over the weeks she had grown more and more familiar with the part, falling in love with Erik's score. He had even told her to sing it at her level, more of a mezzo-soprano like he suggested, saying that it didn't have to be as written so long as it was sung well. He turned and grabbed another costume for himself while she fingered the lace of the skirt. "I'll give you some privacy," he said softly.

Danielle waited while he went to the other side of the curtain before slipping off her own dress. Aminta's costume fit wonderfully as she smoothed if over her waist, almost wishing she had a mirror to judge herself in. She left her soft boots with her dress as she went to stand at the edge of the curtain. "Erik," she called softly, and finally came across the makeshift barrier between them. With just his back to her, he looked magnificent. The Spanish garb accentuated his strong shoulders, and he was holding a matador's cloak in one hand. He set it carefully on the floor, though, at her voice, and turned, paused when he saw her in the dress.

"You look beautiful," he praised, looking her up and down. She smiled shyly and wrung her hands. The look in his eyes turned to concern, and he came to put his hands on her bare shoulders. "What is it?"

"Erik, I don't really know how to dance." The concern in his eyes quickly melted into fondness, and he laughed quietly.

"Come now, Danielle. You've watched ballerinas and chorus girls for long enough." He pulled something from his pocket and pinned a silk rose above her ear. "It's all about the emotion behind it, anyway. The passion." He led her onto the stage and guided her hand to his shoulder before placing his on the small of her back. His other hand clasped hers strongly and stretched out her arm. He angled her in such a way that Danielle realized with a slight blush that she had to lean against him.

"It's alright," he said, "you're supposed to lean. The dance," – he took a step, guiding her with the hand on her back – "is meant to meld the dancers into one being, until it is no longer a dance. It becomes something else, something more." He took another step, and Danielle found herself reflecting him. With him guiding her, she almost anticipated his steps, tangoing in perfect tandem. The awkwardness she always felt while dancing seemed no more than a figment of her imagination, the grace she felt while fencing there instead. His body was firm under hers, the lines of his muscles fitting her own contours perfectly. She stepped in front of him, and he matched her. "Now step," he instructed, and paused her with a slight squeeze of her hand. "Keep your right foot planted just so…Relax…"

"And…?"

"Trust me." Danielle let her body relax, and Erik suddenly spun her around, twisting so that he held her close to the floor. His hand on her back and hers on his shoulder supported the move until Danielle felt she could let go entirely of his other hand. For a breathless moment they stayed like that, and then Erik reversed the step and pulled her back up. She landed against him with her hands on his shoulders, breathing heavily with exhilaration.

"I won't let you fall," he soothed gently. She smiled and looked up at him. They were so close each could feel the other's hear beat, staring deeply into each other's eyes. "You have green in your eyes," he said, sounding surprised. He gently brushed some of her hair back, the better to see the splash of hazel in her brown eyes. "I never noticed."

"No one ever does," she replied quietly. "No one's ever close enough to notice." She was staring into his own eyes, where the sorrow she had so often seen deep within had vanished. She could still smell the chocolate on his breath, so warm on her cheek. He unconsciously held her closer, and her hand slid from his shoulder to his arm…

Erik's hand suddenly slipped from her back, and he took a small step away, distancing himself from her. "You should go," he said, looking away.

"What?" she gasped. He had caught her unawares, and she felt unexpectedly very small without him beside her, naked in a cold wind. She blinked at him in confusion. "Did I –"

"No," he said gently. His hand moved to clasp her shoulder before he hesitated and drew it back. "You have to sing tomorrow, and it's already late." The excuse sounded weak in his own ears, and he had to resist the urge to take her back in his arms and allay the confusion in her eyes. As they stood there that dreaded silence stole around them. Erik couldn't move as she slowly walked past him, blinking tears she didn't understand from her lashes. As he heard her clothes rustle as she changed, his back began to bow and his throat to tighten as the silence between them grew heavier. What had he just done…?

Behind him, Danielle pulled the silk flower from her hair and smoothed some of the fabric petals. One hand brushed angrily at the dew drops against her eyelashes, unable to comprehend why they were there. She studied the flower in her palm for a minute as she steadied her breath. Not a single petal bruised, a perfect, lifeless reflection. She glanced back up at Erik, who had one hand to his masked temple. What trials had bruised him? What unbidden memory had she accidentally resurfaced? She barely thought of his mask anymore: her parents kept so many secrets, he was entitled to his own. But how many secrets could a soul bear on its own?

She impetuously dropped the flower and rushed up behind him, throwing her arms around his waist. Erik started terribly and nearly jumped from her grasp, but he remained where he stood. Danielle rested her cheek on his tense back, wishing that she could convey everything she felt through that touch. His muscles slowly relaxed as she continued to hold him. "Can I come back?" she finally asked, afraid it would be denied.

His sigh was heavy as she heard it through his back. Erik's hand eventually came to rest over hers on his middle, and she tightened her grip on him unknowingly. "I would like that," he said softly. She didn't see the sadness that flooded his eyes, more powerful than before. It was a long time before she unwrapped her arms from his waist. Erik's hand remained where hers had been as he watched her walk down the aisle, fingering her cloak before shrugging it over her shoulders. Her farewell was soft-spoken before she turned and shut the doors.

"You sad fool," he said when she was gone. Erik turned his back to the doors and angrily tore off his mask. "You pitiful sap. You've let yourself fall in love again, haven't you?" His knuckles were white as they gripped the white porcelain. "You have let yourself fall in love, when you know that it can only end in pain!" With a feral howl he threw the mask to the floor. It broke into pieces with a crash that left him staring at it, panting heavily.

"Pain for her. Pain for you! _You damned fool_!" The theater echoed his anguish back cruelly, and he looked up painfully as they berated him on and on. His shadows. His chains.

"But…why?" he pleaded to the shattered porcelain, to the shadows. "Why can't it ever be me? Why can I never win?" The problem was, he like it. Christine hadn't cast her shadow on his thoughts in weeks. He enjoyed his time with Danielle, looked forward to the nights she would come to him. He almost preferred when they just sat and talked to when they sang. And her music…

Oh, that was the worst of it all. They both could sit for hours composing. He never wanted those nights to end. He was falling in love with her eyes, those eyes that never showed pity for more than a flicker of an instant before it was followed by determination.

But how long could it last? How long before her curiosity won out?

Did he have to end it before it shattered into a million pieces when she finally saw the monster beneath the mask, when she finally knew his past? Could it break her anymore than it would break him?

"Just let me have one more game," he said, crouching to pick up the pieces of his broken mask. "One last game. And when it's over, I can stop playing pretend for good." The shadows seemed to consider it, like an executioner judging the condemned's last wish.

Erik could have his one last game, one last piece of joy. And when his mask finally came off, then it could all be over. All be blessedly over.


	4. In Unfurling Splendour

Chapter 4 – In Unfurling Splendour

It was well past midnight a few days later when the shadow slipped into the Emperor's entrance; even that royal box had not escaped bearing a secret spring to open the door. Danielle slipped down into the grand foyer and slowly shut the door. Pale eyes gleamed behind her in the darkness, and she lingered against the frame, listening intently.

Then, with one swift spin, she turned around, dropping her cloak behind her. The eyes darted away into the darkness, and Danielle raced down the rows of seats. Only the rustle of fabric disturbed the silence, until the racers reached backstage. Catwalks, ropes, and chains jangled into life, cackling at the pair.

Danielle blew strands of hair from her face, stealing a glance up to the window-room door. No shadows moved around it, Erik hadn't beaten her yet. A few nights ago, he had been so eager to begin their composing that he had said he would race her for the folder tonight. It had seemed almost unnatural, but what they had written that night was beautiful and sad enough to wrench her heart. But tonight was a race.

She picked up her light skirt and bounded up a flight of stairs three at a time. Catwalks rocked and creaked as she leapt from one to another. Behind, she heard a cloak billow as ropes pulled a drunken jig. An exhilarated laugh broke free from her throat.

Halfway through, center stage and thirty feet up, a board splintered beneath her. Danielle gasped as the floor raced up towards her, and her eyes shut against her will. Her hand reached out blindly for the support ropes.

Suddenly, something snatched her out of gravity's grip. Erik's strong arm locked around her waist and pulled her back from the edge. Danielle gasped and retreated into his waiting arms. A shiver racked her form as her eyes flew to the stage still far below her; Erik's arms tightened protectively around her. His thick opera cloak fell around them both as she stood in his arms, panting. She swore Erik could hear her racing heartbeat. She forcefully unclamped her hand from the rope she was still holding to rest it over her fluttering stomach, started when she found Erik's still there. He tensed and drew back a bit, but only enough to look down at her.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly. She turned her face up to his, her cheeks still flushed. He trailed his cool fingers over her hot skin with concern.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Erik." She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder gratefully. Erik paused and hesitated before holding her again. They stood in silence for a moment, and he held her closer, protectively, sincerely. Danielle wrapped an arm around his neck as she compelled her adrenaline to drop.

"How do you do it, Danielle?" he finally asked, giving in. "Make me feel so…" His words trailed off as he looked out over the Opera, searching for the right thing to say. "As if this isn't a prison."

"Because it isn't." She lifted her head from his shoulder and placed a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at her. His hand moved over hers, pressing her palm against his face. "This is my home. It's your home." When he looked back over the house, her gaze flitted down to the stage again, and she held a tight rein on her nerves.

"You're lucky you didn't fall," he said, following her gaze. "All of those ropes wouldn't have been kind." His hand traced her neck, stilling her shiver.

"Right. Like that poor Buquet the chorus girls always talk of." The warmth around her suddenly vanished.

"Erik?" Far below, the trap door fell open. Danielle leaned over the edge of the guard rope. The trap door was like a gaping black abyss in the floor, a void of a light. "Erik!" She descended as fast as she could, her former vertigo lost in the past, and crouched over the black hole.

The phantom's hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor she dropped into. "I'm an old wolf, Danielle," he cried back. He hall sloped down into darkness. Danielle groped along the cold walls as everything but his voice disappeared into the black. "You can try and draw me into the light, but I'll always live in the darkness. It's soaked into my bones." The sound of a spring bubbled up close by. Orange light flared as the darkness grew hotter, more oppressive, and the door of a furnace gaped its fiery maw. "It's shriveled my heart." His figure loomed up as a silhouette against the flames, his hand clutched over his chest.

"Erik, stop," she called, nearly losing her footing in the blackness. "I don't—"

"Of course you don't understand!" he howled back. "The dark is the only thing that has not shunned me. Every time I stray into the light, it spites me!" He turned to face her, and his eyes shone a terrible yellow in the firelight. "With Joseph Buquet. With the precious Vicomte. With Christine. So I spited it back!" He suddenly lunged at her throat, and Danielle flinched and threw out her arms.

But the blow never came. Danielle slowly opened her eyes to find that Erik had stopped, his hand trembling a few inched from her neck. She looked down at them, slowly lowering her arms. "I was always alone," he said softly, painfully, the light from his eyes gone and replaced with a sadness greater than she had seen before. "No one would ever listen."

"I'm here," Danielle offered gently. She took his outstretched hand in hers, warming it. "I listened."

"You listen to my music," he scorned resignedly, "like Christine did. But when it's over, you'll disappear with it, running off to someone else."

"I haven't heard any music tonight." His calloused hand was warmer as she pressed it to her collar bone. "Wolves don't have to live alone. Your night doesn't have to be this dark." She impulsively pulled him forward, leading him back the way they had came. She led him up until they resurfaced onto the stage, dragged him up even further. As they climbed, he protested and dug his heels in, but Danielle urged him on with only a slight tug. They climbed higher and higher until the ceiling sloped close above their heads.

The roof expanded before them when she unlocked the door. The young woman tripped easily down the steps, and Erik finally pulled his hand from hers. The phantom hung back in the indifferent gloom of the landing, watching her. For all his efforts to drive her away, to save her from the pain he knew would come, she didn't care. He watched her sashay across the frosted rooftop with a strange feeling in his heart, as if he had suddenly realized something. Realized that maybe, just maybe, this game wouldn't have to end the same as the others…

Paris twinkled beneath the Opera House, bedecked with more golden lights and the silver ribbon of the river than jeweled Versailles itself. The Eiffel Tower stood like a column supporting the stars above. The Opera around them stood like a silent muse, quietly and knowingly waiting in the night. Winged horses were frozen with pinions outstretched, hooves balanced in a lunge. Angels crouched over their instruments with wings furled against the wind. Reigning over the cityscape was Apollo, lifting his lyre to the endless vault of the sky, presiding over his court of marble figures.

On the eastern horizon, the sky was just fading into gray, traces of pink inking the few clouds that strafed the atmosphere. Danielle leaned on one of the horses' flanks and turned back to the doorway. Erik was veiled in the gloom, watching her from behind his mask. Danielle had almost forgotten about it amongst the catwalks. She still itched to tear it off; questions still burned in her mind for why he wore it. She had learned not to ask, though.

"Come on, Erik," she beckoned to him gently.

"It's the same dark, Angel." He still denied the faint hope that tried to taunt him with its allure.

"No," she disagreed, leading him out onto the roof. She waved at the spacious sky. "This is fresh darkness. They call it 'night.'" Wind stirred his cloak as he followed her. Apollo and his court were oblivious to the two beneath them.

"It's the same night I have lived in for years." Danielle shrugged and took him to a corner of the roof, leaping up to the Pegasus. She balanced on the ledge, arms outstretched. Angels didn't fear falling. She lifted a pining hand to the sky, a movement that shamed the figures around her.

"You see, Erik. The night has its own light." He touched the small of her back to bring her down. Instead, she leaned out, supported by the horse's hoof. "It can be more beautiful than the day's." He finally stole her from the heights, helping her down, before looking up. The moon hung in the west, a precious pearl low in the sky. Its ethereal light transformed Danielle into a pale beauty. She sighed as she descended from the ledge like Venus from her scallop, breathed in the night and the moonlight falling from Apollo's lyre. She looked more a phantom of the night than he.

As she breezed past him, a lock seemed to give way in Erik's soul. He suddenly remembered what the night was, and not the darkness. The music he had lost so long ago whispered in his mind, the spirit of the night flowing in his veins. Danielle turned back to him once more, smiling faintly, and he could read the music lacing her very skin. It pushed his pulse faster, the sight of her waiting patiently, of the night sky stretching endlessly above them.

He suddenly swept past her and leapt up onto the god's back and the angels' wings, reaching a hand back to his Angel. Her wisp of a grin made him smile back. He pulled her up, climbing behind her to stand framed between the marble wings. The wind seized his cloak and whipped it behind him as he held Danielle close. The sky was so close he could have touched it, pink and gold staining it like watercolors. She gasped and stared out over the city, now sprawled beneath them like a carpet of lights.

"A better view, don't you think?" he asked in her ear, smiling at her delighted expression. His hand clasped hers, their fingers interlacing. Danielle fell silent and turned her head against his shoulder.

"Much better," she whispered. Erik glanced where she looked. The eastern sky had turned a butter yellow, and a thin sliver of the sun rose above the earth. The light fell on the pair above the Opera, extinguishing the moon's pale glow with a rich, saturated warmth that immediately into everything. Danielle took a deep breath and leaned back against Erik contentedly. They might as well have been statues fro all that Paris noticed, but the sun shone on them as benevolently as the rest of the city.

Beneath her, Erik suddenly started shaking. The young woman started and twisted around to ask what was wrong, but her words vanished. He was staring into the sunlight, smiling. The eyes behind his mask were bright with a foreign bliss that looked so beautiful on his face. And he was laughing.

"Erik?' she asked, an enigmatic smile curling her lips. He beamed down at her like a captive free of his chains as he finally let himself grab at hope.

"I haven't seen the sun in so long," he said. His hands entwined in her hair, and another laugh escaped him. If his singing was like an angel's, than his laughter was like the purest sound of the first rain to ever fall. "So long, Danielle." The new day's light washed over them as the sun rose higher. Erik caught her up in his arms and leapt down to the roof, spinning her around joyfully. The pair started laughing, so loud that they woke the birds around them. Doves and pigeons burst into frantic flight through the sea of light, while the two beneath them were oblivious to anything but each other.

Erik let her feet touch the ground as he looked down at her, fixed on the hazel in her eyes. Danielle lifted them up to his face, his glorious face even in spite of his mask. Erik brushed back her hair and bent down. "Oh, Danielle," he whispered, and kissed her. The sunlight was golden around them, gilding the moment. She was stunned as his lips pressed against hers.

He drew away slowly, closing his eyes to savor the moment. "Forgive me, Danielle," he said quietly. He had no right to kiss her, but it had been so marvelous. It had been everything he had ever dreamt. He had never kissed a woman before, not him, and he just wanted to savor that moment before it was gone… "I shouldn't have—"

He gasped as she suddenly kissed him back, his eyes flying open. Her hand rested on his side, and she lifted on her tiptoes to move her mouth against his. And when he placed his hand on her back, holding her close, she felt like the sun was rising for the first time. When she drew back she took her first breath all over again.

She had thought that the world was beautiful before.

He had thought that he had given up on love.

Nothing could ever be as sweet as that music…

It took an eternity to shut the front door. Danielle smiled wistfully even as she put her hand against the wood. Her back leaned against the strong wood, and she thought she felt it shift as someone on the other side did the same. Wings fluttered as the birds began to settle back to the roof, still wary of any more laughter. But the two were reduced to smiles, breathing in the fresh morning air that felt so new, so splendid in their lungs.

Her hand dipped into her pocket and touched the little silver ring from the Persian's house. Only one ring was there, and she pulled it out to smile at it. Erik had laughed at it when it fell from her pocket, and pulled it apart as easily as a child's toy. He had even pulled a flower from her hair, out of thin air. She would have asked how if she hadn't been laughing too hard. With a small laugh she started humming music to herself and skipped down the steps, glancing backward up at the doors contentedly.

"Up early, Mademoiselle de Chagny?" Danielle missed a step and whipped around. The daroga stood at the corner of the theater steps, wearing his astrakhan cap and wielding an ornately carved black-wood walking stick. His eyes were intense as they flicked over the silver clasped in her hand. "I see you've figured out my little trick? That was fast. Where is the other?"

"I gave it to a friend," she stammered, surprised at the daroga's presence. He stood tensely, as if he were on the edge of asking something. The step he took towards her was like a lion's from his native home. Danielle felt a shape shift in the shadows of the theater in response, and she took a tentative step closer to it. Her inconspicuously raised hand stilled it, and Erik paused in the gloom. She wasn't even sure he was there as he slipped back into the dim light, back through whatever doorway he had unlocked.

"Someone in the Opera, mademoiselle? At this time of day?" He spoke congenially, but Danielle thought she heard a whisper of something else in his voice. As if he did not want to ask, but had to know. He stepped closer to Danielle, and he was so much taller and slightly intimidating in his insistence that she had to dodge past him.

"Yes, daroga. I left it here for someone. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time I was home." She walked down the street calmly, but his eyes on her back made her hike her cloak a little higher on her shoulders. The silver felt cooler in her hands.

When she was gone, the Persian turned his gaze back on the Opera House. His knuckles gripped the cane tightly as he scanned the ornate doors, the beautiful stone work. He guiltily found himself wishing slightly that it was his trusty pistol he held instead of the cane.

Had he returned? Could the monster truly have returned? Had the Angel of Music hooked its claws into the young woman? Or was the daroga just chasing waifs from his past?

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered ruefully and walked away.


	5. The End of Make Believe

Chapter 5 – The End of Make Believe

The horses pulling the coach whinnied and danced to a stop in front of the Paris Grand Opera. At flakes of snow floated from the night sky and coated everything in a glittering white. Winter had set in fro a long, sleepy hibernation, draping all of Pari in its pristine blankets. The coachman hopped down and unlatched the door, letting the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny get out. The vicomte took one refreshing breath of the cool air and offered his hand to his wife. Christine stepped out gracefully, and their children piled out behind them. Jacques and Nicola stood together, wrapped in each others' warmth. Danielle stayed off by herself staring anxiously at the theater as snowflakes dotted her hair.

"Go ahead, all of you," Raoul said, shooing them all towards the house. Danielle's smile lit her face, and she practically flew to the theater, her brother and his fiancée following more sedately. The viscount smiled and took Christine's arm. "Don't they all look happy," he said fondly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders against the cold.

"I wonder who he is." Mother and father grinned at each other knowingly. Danielle's increasingly frequent visits to the Opera as winter fell had not eluded either of them.

"We shall just have to invite him to our box, whoever he is." They laughed and shared a kiss.

"I have to go, Raoul," Christine finally sighed against his mouth. They had stopped at the foot of the great marble staircase in the center of the main foyer. Raoul sighed, too, in mock regret, and took her thick winter cloak. The grand lobby of the Opera was warm with the bustle of theater-goers passing back and forth, lingering in little groups of gossip.

"Go and sing then, Margarita," he said. They parted ways, Christine flitting off to her dressing room. Raoul climbed the magnificent steps and turned down the corridor to Box Five. The baroque red-and-gold view of the stage had a welcome familiarity to it as he opened the door to his family's private lodge. Tonight was _Faust_, the opera that had presided over most of his engagement. Such confusing times, he thought back in retrospect. Whatever the cost in winning Christine, it had paid off now. His oldest was about to be wed, and now Danielle had a suitor of her own. She was already in the orchestral pit, dressed in thick black wool for her costume. Tonight she would play the windy pipe organ on the stage for the church scene, swathed in so much black that she could look like an old woman with a simple hunch of her shoulders. Now, though, in the pulled and sag-like black robes with her back straight and her long hair wispy, she looked like a Gypsy woman. Her gaze wandered from her sheets of music to fix high in the theater, and Raoul followed it curiously.

He suddenly blinked. The chandelier? He had to check once more. She must had been looking for someone to come in the doors, or perhaps one of the boxes at the back of the theater. Yes, one of the boxes, he convinced himself. He shook his head and sat back in the velvet seat, suppressing a shiver down his spine.

In the pit, Danielle was just sitting at the back, hidden from view with her back against the stage. She rested her hands on the table idly; she was playing the organ on the stage, and would only play some auxiliary percussion down here like the triangle. Anyone who could carry a beat and count could manage that, but Danielle was grateful to be down here either way. She ducked her head to see past the overhand of the stage. Her father was reclined against the plush seat, staring thoughtfully at the stage. Something in the furrow of his brow concerned her, though. Her papa's face was made to laugh, but now something worried and tense commanded his expression. Almost like from whenever she would ask…

Something clicked in the wall beside her, swiftly drawing her attention away from the grand tier. She was taken aback by her folder sitting on the unfinished wood of the table, and she quickly snatched it to her breast. Tucked into the front pocket was an envelope, sealed with the most elaborate red wax seal. The scurry of musicians and muffled shuffle of Dr. Faust and the actors on the stage faded to the background as she cracked it open.

_I have written you one more page of music. It is almost done; you must decide on a name. Come to me tonight, Aminta, after everyone has left, and we shall finish it. _

_I will wait for you by the boat at the edge of the lake._

_Yours,_

_Erik_

Danielle smiled and held it close to her lips. She could even smell him on the paper: that rich mix of spices and incense, violin rosin, and the damp hypnotic smell of the subterranean. When Mercier tapped his baton, she regretfully folded it up and tucked it beneath the black robes. The curtains swept open and the opera started.

Raoul tried to relax. When Christine graced the stage as Margarita, her song managed to soothe his fears. During the entre-acte, though, he couldn't help leaning forward and scanning the theater as if he were fighting to protect Christine again. He lingered over the chandelier, and for a moment the viscount thought he saw a shadow fit behind it.

_The phantom's gone,_ he told himself forcefully. But the tense feeling in his muscles refuses to disappear.

The night passed on without any incident, and Raoul began to feel foolishly paranoid. The curtain finally fell. The viscount was out of his box and at the door to Christine's dressing room before a crowd had time to form. Mother and daughter were caught by surprise to meet him in the deserted hallway.

"Raoul, what are you doing here already?" Christine asked, opening the door.

"Waiting to take you all to supper." He smiled and Danielle and allowed her to walk past him to her own room, but Christine paused and grabbed his arm.

"What is it?" she asked, meeting his eyes.

"When we're home," he said, watching his daughter turn the corner, glancing over her shoulder warily.

Christine wasted no time in pulling her husband aside when they finally reached home that night. The sitting room door shut quietly behind them, and she stared at him pointedly in the light of the fire. "Now will you tell me what has you so distressed? You're giving me chills, staring around like this."

Her husband sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm being irrational," he muttered uneasily, "but I keep thinking that…that he's still there, in the Opera. Waiting to steal you away again." He couldn't even bring himself to say 'phantom.' It would just have made him feel all the more foolish.

"Oh, Raoul," she consoled, touching his shoulder tenderly. The smile she bestowed on him made him fell nothing like a fool. "I'm sure it's nothing. You're just concerned about Danielle. You're the kind of father that doesn't want to see his daughter grow up. Don't worry, my love." He blinked at her in surprise. He had thought he was worried about Christine again, but it had been Danielle who had been glancing up at the chandelier. He smiled and couldn't help the small laugh that came from his throat. Christine kissed his cheek and took his wrist. "Just go and talk to her about it." She turned him gently and pushed him out the door.

Raoul sighed and strode down the hall. He _was_ being irrational. Maybe Christine was right, and he just had stronger paternal instincts than he realized. Deep down, he wanted to protect his only daughter from going through the same tragedy he had undergone. He paused at her door, hand on the doorknob. Maybe he should tell her just what had happened, finally allay her appetite for knowledge.

"Danielle," he said, finally pushing open the door, "I wanted too…"

Raoul de Chagny's veins turned to ice. "Christine!" he shouted. The countess flew down the hall and halted herself against the doorjamb. Raoul disappeared down the hallway with terrible fierce strides, leaving her staring wide-eyed.

"What is it?" He came back out of their room, ominously carrying his sword. His boots were loud even on the carpeted floor.

"Where did he take you?" he demanded coldly. In his hand he held up a blood red rose, his fingers knotted tight in the black silk tied around it. Christine went rigid, staring at it.

"It can't be…" Raoul buckled on his sword with icy efficiency as she took the flower in numb hands, unable to believe what her hands and eyes were telling her was there.

"Where, Christine?" he asked again, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Where did the phantom take you?"

Her knuckles went white as she pulled her gaze back to stare at his face. "Through the mirror," she said. Her pretty brow furrowed as she forced herself out of her reverie, and she suddenly gasped. "In my old dressing room!"

---

Organ music echoed down the waterways as Christine and Raoul splashed through the lake. They watched the water warily for the phantom's sire, but the only music came from ahead. It rolled over the water, sounding so harmless, and yet to the two it echoed like a death knell in their ears. So distant from the loving fingers that were even then coaxing it into life.

"One more line, I think," said Danielle's voice.

"But still no name." Christine clutched Raoul's arm; the vicomte looked back at her and stalked forward warily, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. As they drew closer, he could hear what he refused to accept: quiet laughter from both of them. His daughter – and the Phantom of the Opera…

The music cut off without warning. "What is it?" Danielle said softly. She and the phantom sat at the candle arrayed keyboard of the magnificent pipe organ, his hand arresting hers on the ivory keys. They both looked over to see Christine and Raoul, standing warily on the shore.

The three of them – Raoul, Christine, and the phantom – were all staring at each other, faces as hard at his unmoving mask.

"Danielle," Raoul called, "come here." She and the phantom started from the bench, but she pushed him back down.

"Papa, there's nothing wrong. He hasn't—"

"Danielle, now," he ordered. She blinked at his commanding tone, and her hand wandered back towards the phantom unconsciously. "Come away from that monster before he sinks his fangs any deeper." Raoul stepped closer, keeping Christine behind him.

"His name is Erik," Danielle said simply in wary defense, standing in front of the phantom. Both her parents blinked, as if giving him a name were the most alien of things. Beneath her hand, she felt Erik's muscles tense, and a shiver of apprehension climbed her spine. Her gaze was fixed on the sword in her father's hand with an uneasy feeling twisting her insides. That sword meant too many different things to her.

Raoul had insisted that she learn at least some self defense, but when she had first touched the sword she had been astounded. The natural grace that so eluded her at the ballerina's bar had unlocked its door and let her move like a cat, like a hunting tiger confident in her own claws. It hadn't taken her long to master it. But she had never used it, really, never had cause to draw it against another.

And the only time she had seen her father carry it outside of practice was in those first early years, when he had seemed much more an anxious young man glancing over his shoulder at shadows. The night she had asked him about the Opera Ghost…

Christine angled around her protective husband. "Come with us, Danielle," she said gently, holding out a hand. Erik stood from the bench. With effort the countess managed not to stare at him. "You do not know what you have strayed into."

"But, mama, he hasn't done anything." As she spoke, Erik stepped past her, descending into the shallow lake. Something ominous in his gait froze her tongue, and her throat grew tight.

Raoul brandished his blade menacingly. "How dare you try to take her," he began to threaten, but Erik's imperious voice rose above his.

"Fool vicomte, to wander back here." A small part of Erik's mind was horrified at how easily it came back. Adrenaline pounded in his ears, and he moved towards the coil hidden beneath the water without even thinking. The flick of the wrist, the cold numb that mercifully shut out everything: how easily it all came back. The little voice of reason inside of him was over powered by the sudden primitive sense of defense. All he knew was that his rival stood before him, threatening to take the one thing that Erik had left… "You think the same of me as you always have. Didn't they ever teach you to never leave a wounded enemy alive?"

He lashed out like a viper, and Raoul dropped his sword in defense, lifting up his hand. Danielle and Christine both cried out in horror. The phantom's noose had fallen around Raoul's neck, only his fist halting it from tightening and killing him outright. Danielle cried out the phantom's name and jumped forward, but he pulled out of her grasp. His hand wrestle to tighten the rope, but Raoul aimed a hard kick at his leg, and they both crashed into the water.

The vicomte surfaced first, gasping for breath on all fours. Christine suddenly shouted fearfully, for now nothing was protecting his throat, and leapt forward to shove a hand beneath the rope.

"Erik, no!" Danielle screamed. The phantom burst from the water, sneering viciously behind his mask and the rope in his hand. He yanked it tight and hauled the vicomte up; Christine, Raoul, and Erik were a tangle of arms, all fighting over the same piece of rope.

Danielle stumbled back in shock, staring at them. Her heel tripped over something in the water, and she fell hard. What was going on? How could her night have gone so terrible wrong in so short a time? Her foot kicked at the thing again as she struggled backward, and she suddenly started in realization. The sword! Danielle scrambled to her knees in the shallow water, searching frantically for the blade. The sharp edge sliced into her palm, drawing a harsh curse from her lips, but she grabbed at the hilt and leapt to her feet. The sword swept out of the water as she lifted her arm, the point coming to rest at Erik's neck.

Everything froze. The only sound besides the drip of water was Raoul's strangled breath. Her voice quivered as she stared at Erik with teary eyes. "Don't, Erik," she said hoarsely, wondering as even the voice she had gained from Erik was slipping mercilessly from her grasp. His fingers shifted on the rope, and the wild light in his eyes faded into something terrified. Danielle had to swallow fiercely before lifting her chin, and she pressed the cold point into Erik's soft flesh. "Let him go."

The rope seemed to take an eternity of silence to fall when he dropped it. Raoul gasped as Christine pulled the noose free, catching him on her shoulder. Erik stared down at his hands in dismay as Danielle lowered the sword to her side numbly.

"Show her," Raoul demanded softly, leaning heavily on Christine. Erik glanced up at him in fear. "Show her, Erik. Show her the monster you are behind that mask." He reached out and suddenly tore it from the phantom's face and made the choice for him.

All innocence has to die eventually.

Danielle gasped, taking an involuntary step back. Raoul flung the mask away, revealing the phantom in all his horror. Erik stood, helpless and alone, unable to meet her eyes. They stood, she staring at his terrible disfigurement, he down at his hands, unsure what to do. She opened her mouth, but there were no words to say to that tormented man. Her fingers cramped on the sword hilt before she forced herself to move. She moved to her father's side distractedly, and put an arm silently around his waist. The vicomte sighed and let her drape his arm over her shoulders, squeezing his wife's in commiseration.

"If you ever come near my family again," Raoul said, turning his piercing raptor's gaze on Erik again, "I will make sure I have no need for ultimatums again." Neither he nor Christine looked back. Danielle couldn't help it. Erik didn't even watch them go, only staring down at his hands despairingly.

It was only then that that little voice of reason caught up with him. He had been trying to protect her from her own father. _Fool. And you didn't think that trying to kill him would only push her away! _

He hadn't meant to. That hadn't been his intention. It had been like Christine all over again, except that Danielle, he realized with a terrible wrenching of his heart, meant more.

And now she was gone, too; turned away by his own hand.

Erik looked up and found himself drawn to stare at the mirrors still leaning after all these years against his home's walls. They were starred and fractured, but that only helped to reveal the true visage of his soul.

A blackness worse than anything before washed over his soul, and an icy cold grasped him that was far worse than all the fires of hell combined.

It was over. His game was over. He had known it would come, the end of everything.

But he had stilled hoped against all reason that it wouldn't…

---

"Papa," Danielle said weakly when they finally reached home. "I'm so sorry. I never thought…I didn't mean for it…"

Her father raised a forestalling hand, and she fell silent. They were all in dry clothes, in the safety of their own home with a fire crackling warmly, but she couldn't stop shivering. Christine took her quaking hand and pulled her to sit between them.

"Don't blame yourself for this, sweetheart," she said gently, pushing damp strands of hair from her daughter's brow. "It happened to me, too." Danielle blinked and looked half-way at her mother. Raoul put his arm tenderly around his daughter's shoulders and sighed as he leaned back against the couch.

"You should know what happened, Danielle. I never thought I would have to tell you like this," he said, shaking his head slightly, "but the time has come for you to know."


	6. That Which is Blind

Angsty fluff! ..or is it fluffy angst? Not sure, but it's a perfect combination. I realize that this chapter is kind of short, so I apologize. Hopefully content will make up for it. Tell me what you think, love reviews like the Wicked Witch likes little dogs. So... 

Chapter 6 – That Which is Blind

Soft splashes murmured through the waterways beneath the Opera late the next day. Danielle felt her way along the passage, the boat missing. She hadn't been able to sleep at all that night, her father's words echoing ceaselessly in her mind. The picture of Erik standing so forlorn and abandoned wouldn't let her shut her eyes. She stopped at the edge of the wavering candlelight that spilled onto the lake, leaning against the cold stone walls. Her shadow leaned forward, staring through her hidden gloom.

Erik paced across his sparse home and flung a candlestick into the lake. It made barely a sound in the suffocating silence that hung over the entire night. Danielle flinched when she saw the blood on his knuckles. The already shattered mirrors bore more stars on them, refracting the flickering light in a broken travesty. He stopped in front of the organ, coldly considering his hands.

"What a fool you are," he cursed himself quietly, words he seemed to mutter more and more often, "what a damned fool." Danielle's breath caught at the terrible tone of his voice. No longer was the cadence of angels and heaven resonating inside of him; now only the broken voice of a man with no hope, a man with nothing left to live for came from his throat. It barely even echoed in the watery cove, it was so weak and forlorn, as if he had already forsaken this world and left it far behind. "No one would listen." He sighed and turned, picking up something that rested above the keyboard of the organ and fingering it despairingly. His voice shook. "No one but her. And you've thrown it all away. You've broken everything." He gripped the noose harder, dark blood beading over the back of his hand.

"Oh, Erik," Danielle pitied softly, but he heard. He started so badly he kicked over the piano bench, slamming his back against the keyboard.

"_You,_" he growled, a word infused with love and fear enough to weigh down the sky. He stared at her as she emerged from the shadows, lifting her skirts as she waded through the water. "What are you doing here?" His voice nearly broke, but his glare was hard enough to cast the words in stone.

Danielle paused at the anger he managed to glaze his words with. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the rope hanging curled in his hands, like a viper slowly winding its way up his arm. "I had to come back," she murmured distractedly. "I couldn't just…"

"What? You had to be sure that it wasn't a dream? Well it isn't, Danielle, it's a nightmare. A living nightmare that you can never escape from." She lifted her gaze slowly from the rope to look at him.

"No," she said quietly. "No, not that Erik." And in this terrible scene that Goethe himself couldn't have written, she found herself inexorably looking back on that first night she had met him. The same wary, weary look was in his eyes, behind the mask… "Why, Erik? Why do you wear that mask?"

He looked taken aback as she stepped out of the water onto the rocky shore. He backed away as she drew near, watching her cagily. "Because it is the face of a demon," he snapped defensively, "a face that everyone hates and fears, your father rightfully so."

"Why do you wear a mask, Erik?" she asked again.

"I always have. The world has given me one thing, why should I refuse it?" he lied weakly. He was backed against the wall now, and his one hand groped over it as if to find some escape. Danielle reached out and gently took the noose from him, placed it where the coiled viper could do no harm. Her hair fell loose from behind her ear as she turned away from it to look at him.

"Why, Erik?"

His pale eyes locked on her calm hazel pair, and he found that all his reserve had died. "To hide," he admitted brokenly. Erik slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor without realizing it. He stared at his hands again as if they were irreparably stained. "I have done terrible things, Danielle, such terrible things. I cannot face them. All I ever wanted was to live, to be free to do as everyone else does. But no one ever wanted me. The one time I tried not to be feared, she hated me for it! For deceiving her. I couldn't win. I can't…I can't face myself. Face you. I did not want you to see."

His words trailed off weakly as Danielle knelt beside him. Her hands were gentle as she took his, carefully wiping the blood on his hands away with the hem of her dress. The few pieces of glass she pulled away as he spoke were thrown into the lake with a single, brief flash of red before falling into the water. He couldn't speak any more, afraid that his voice would finally betray him more than he could bear. Silently, she reached out her hand, and Erik turned his face away, shutting his eyes in pain. Danielle pulled the mask away and set it down at her feet without a word. Tentatively at first, then growing more sure, her fingers delicately traced the lines of his face, pressing her palm against his cheek.

"Why do you do that?" he pleaded.

"So that I can know it," she explained simply. "I've had so long to recognize the rest of your face. I don't like it being uneven in my mind."

"Why would you want to remember the face of such a demon?" A tear slipped down his cheek, and her thumb brushed it tenderly. She held the little drop on her fingertip for a moment, examining it as if it were a precious diamond.

"I've never seen a demon cry." Erik slowly opened his eyes and turned his face back to hers. They were so beseeching as he looked at her. He was crying, quietly, his body shaking from the effort. Danielle bit back a sob and pulled him to her breast, laying her cheek on the top of his head. A single teardrop slid from her lashes as she knelt beside him, trying to shelter him from the world. Erik's arm wrapped around her hesitantly as he rested his temple against the hollow of her throat, the tears finally overcoming him in soft sobs. Danielle only held him closer, letting him cry his soul onto her shoulders and releasing him from his cold and lonely prison.

And slowly he gave way. The damn he had built within him broke, at first in a small, persistent trickle until he found himself telling her everything. He clung to her as if she were the only thing protecting him from the floodwaters of his own past. When he whispered about that first nightmarish vision in the mirror, she brushed his eyes to try and hide them. In the Gypsy cage, she kissed his corpse's cheek. And in the cellars after _Don Juan_, she didn't leave. _She didn't leave…_

Erik barely noticed when she gently coaxed him to his feet and led him to bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Danielle stood staring at him for a long time, watching him sleep the way only an exhausted man could. He looked so weary, yet a calm, accepting peacefulness lay over his face. He looked so…mortal. As he had clung to her, Danielle had realized that, in spite of all his talent, his experience, his prowess at everything she had seen him do, even beneath his often cold demeanor, a part of him was still just a child. A boy, longing to know that he was accepted. To know that he was loved.

She swiped futilely at the tears beading from her eyes again. She turned away, half afraid that Erik would wake to see her red-faced and teary-eyed. The water was freezing as she splashed it onto her face, scrubbing away the salty trails left on her cheeks. How could anyone have done such things to him? A cage. A cage! They had locked him up like an animal, worse than any living thing deserved! And his own mother had shown him the mirror…

Her eyes suddenly rose to the glass panes with a fierce light of determination burning in them. Rising from the water, she strode over to them. They leaned against the wall, two full length mirrors in gilt frames. With a small grunt, Danielle tipped the first one over and very slowly lowered it to the ground. She winced when pieces of the glass fell out and broke on the ground, more out of fear of waking Erik than from the pain as they scratched her arms. A cold breeze stirred her hair as she let go of the second mirror and stepped back. The velvet hanging across the empty frame billowed out faintly, brushing her skin. Danielle shivered and pushed it aside to peer down into the gloom behind the empty frame, but moved no further.

The shiver didn't subside, and she dropped the velvet back as she wrapped her arms around herself. Her dress was sodden, and the cold was suddenly unbearable. Danielle tried to clamp down her chattering teeth. She quietly passed the organ, pausing to straighten the bench. Her hand straightened their papers still arranged on the keyboard, and she slipped back into the bedroom. A little bit of searching produced a pair of old trousers and a coat. The robe was dark green velvet, embroidered on the back and the sleeves with scrollwork, and hung below her waist when she held it up. Glancing over her shoulder, Danielle slipped out of her wet dress. The coat was gratefully warm over her corset.

The sheets rustled as Danielle crawled on top of them, settling with her legs crossed close to Erik's side. For some reason, she felt like she had seen him fall tonight, a weary eagle finally succumb to the flames. But now, stirring in the ashes was a phoenix, even more majestic and beautiful as it rose from the remains of its former life. Her hand crept forward and touched the soft linen of his shirt. Even beneath it, she could trace the ridges of old scars crossing his side.

His back to her, Erik stirred in his sleep. Danielle's hand quivered faintly as she slid her hand beneath his shirt and pressed it against the skin. The scars from the Gypsy cave were still there, still clinging to him mercilessly. But as she tenderly touched his side, she realized that they were as much a part of him as the rest of his skin. No matter how dark his past, how terrible his memories, they had made him what he was today. Her breath was shaky as she shifted on the bed and swiftly drew her hand back.

"_Fenris' Cry_," she murmured, and Erik opened his eyes. Her throat sounded tight, and he turned just enough to watch her over his shoulder. Her back was hunched as she stared at her hands in her lap, fingering the sheets. "That's what it's called. _Fenris' Cry._ It's an old legend from Scandinavia. Fenris was a wolf, the son of a god and a giantess. All of the gods played with him when he was a little pup. He loved games. They'd play long into the night. But there was a prophecy, one that said a son of Loki would help to destroy Valhalla in fire at the end of the world.

"They kept playing. But as the years passed, Fenris grew. He grew and grew, until he could have swallowed the whole earth. And the gods grew afraid. So they decided to capture him, and lock him away so that he couldn't destroy them. They called to him, and said, 'Come, Fenris, let's play a game. We'll put this chain around your neck, and you try to break it.' Fenris was strong, and when they put it around his neck, he broke the chain in a moment.

"So the gods tried again. They made another chain of everything strong they could find, every metal, every stone. But he broke that, too. So they made one more chain. This one was full of magic, things immeasurable. It wasn't even a chain, it was just a ribbon, made of cats' footsteps and birds' breath. The gods came and asked Fenris to play again, but he didn't like this game anymore. He said that he would only try and break this one if one of the gods put a hand in his jaws. So at the price of one limb, they won. They chained Fenris for good and locked him away in the deeps of the earth."

Erik's hand was on her shoulder, and she laced her fingers through his and hugged it close. "He was such an adorable little pup, and they chained him away for eternity. All because he frightened them, because he was different." His arm wrapped around her waist, and she curled up in his arms for a minute, leaning back against his warmth. "I'm sorry," she said finally, letting go of his hand. "I'm sorry, Erik, go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you." The smile she gave him was sad, but she suddenly laughed quietly at herself. "Go back to sleep." Erik let her slip from his arms and push him back against the pillows. He could see the faint tremble in her hands as she reached out to the music box sitting on the dresser. But when she turned back, he had fallen asleep again beneath the weight of his exhaustion.

The music box tinkled faintly behind her as she knelt down and took his hand to look at his knuckles. The cuts had stopped bleeding and were already beginning to dry. Her fingers deftly pulled one last piece of glass from them. As she was about to stand, Erik sighed in his sleep and pulled her hand close to his chest. Her fingers were pressed against him, and after a moment of holding her breath she could feel his heart beneath her palm.

She didn't want to leave. She didn't want him to have to wake alone. But if he woke first, he would probably be gone. Glancing around, Danielle pulled the little music box closer. As she awkwardly lifted it down with one hand, a small drawer fell open, revealing a glint of jewels. The diamond ring nestled on the little satin cushion glinted in the candlelight, and Danielle admired it curiously. When she picked it up, she realized that it was resting in the middle of another ring. It was the silver ring that Danielle had gotten from the Persian, nestled in the little drawer beside this beautiful diamond. It looked rather pale and plain beside it, but for some reason it contented her. Shutting the drawer on the two rings, she wound the little key and rested her finger on it before it could turn.

The first time her finger slipped, she started back awake and rewound it before it had played three notes. The second time, it was a few more crystalline chimes before she caught herself.

A few hours later, Erik woke up to the soft sound of the brass mechanism's notes. He stared at Danielle sleepily for a moment before realizing that he was holding her hand. The girl was kneeling on the floor, her cheek pillowed on her arm and the music box sitting beside her. He smiled faintly as he realized that she had been trying to stay awake with the music.

He might as well have been a reborn phoenix rising from the ashes. Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed without disturbing Danielle and very carefully gathered her in his arms. He carried her to the boat and draped his cloak over her. All the way up from the cellars, he carried her. She was exhausted. Erik was accustomed, to a point, of not sleeping, and that short rest beneath her gaze felt like a year of rejuvenation to him. His little Angel, she curled up against his chest with all the trust in the world after two sleepless nights of worrying over him.

_She came back._ He exchanged his cloak for a warm blanket thrown over the back of the chair in her dressing room. She shifted and murmured something of a thanks in her sleep as she pulled it around her shoulders. _Fenris,_ he thought to himself as he turned back to the mirror. He had a fine folder stored somewhere, and enough fresh paper to copy it all…

"Erik?" He turned back in the mirror's frame. Danielle's eyes were hooded with fatigue, and he didn't doubt that she was barely aware she was speaking. She burrowed her way deeper into the cushions of the divan and shut her eyes. "Will you come to the New Year's ball?" He smiled.

"Of course, Angel." He didn't shut the mirror as he walked back into the dim corridor.


	7. When Song Takes Flight

**Author's Notes: **You're all probably gonna hate me for this chapter, but you'll have to get over it. I'm not _purely_ romance, right? cringes at thought So this is about the middle point of this story, where the plot shifts from internal problems to external ones (aka-other people causing trouble instead of Erik and Danni causing problems for themselves) So enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 7 – When Song Takes Flight

The Opera was a whirlwind of colors. The managers were holding their annual New Year's _bal masque, _and everyone was there in the most fanciful garb Paris could offer. Dominoes swirled through the wine-distilled lights in a dizzying kaleidoscope of high spirits.

All of the Opera was there. Madame Giry, Meg, and her son Maurice appeared out of corner, the old matriarch waving her fan imperially as she watched the scene. The managers stood in a corner, glancing around suspiciously at the gossip could only guess what. Raoul and Christine danced. The vicomte was covered in dark green, his mask painted with forest leaves and vines, and Christine was a summer sun in warm yellow, a small gold gem hanging around her neck. Far across the foyer, Danielle sat with her chin in her palm. She was a vision in black silk, a slashed skirt covering her black pants and ribbons belted around her waist like a tail. A long-muzzled mask sat on the seat beside her. The woman was staring out over the sea of people, searching. But he wasn't there.

Had she scared him off? So much contact after a lifetime of solitude could definitely do that. But she had only been trying to help. She couldn't leave Erik down there all alone, a prey to whatever darkness had leaked into his soul.

If she could change the way her heart felt, maybe things would be different, but that was out of the question. Fate never let you change your destiny. Your heart didn't see the same way your eyes did. Danielle shifted in her seat, wondering if that was what she really felt. If she was in love…

The Persian suddenly appeared out of the menagerie of colors and took the seat beside her, forcing her out of her daydreaming. Danielle's mouth fell open in astonishment. The daroga was dressed in the most vibrant blue, feathers stitched around his cuffs and the mask he held in his dark hand. He leaned on his knees and looked out over the crowd, copying Danielle.

"Quite the masquerade, mademoiselle," he said amiably, flashing a smile at her. Danielle forced a grin back before returning to her search. The daroga became petulant and followed her eyes as she quested. "Who are you looking for?"

"No one," she muttered distractedly. The Persian didn't stop following her gaze, and Danielle suddenly felt a shiver of suspicion down her spine. The daroga was sifting through the crowd like a hound on the scent. His garb suddenly looked more like a police uniform than a masquerade costume. She was about to open her mouth and draw his attention back when Jacques dropped into the vacant chair on her other side. He smiled and pulled his mask off, fanning himself.

"So what, pray tell dear sister, is so fascinating about these seats that they've claimed the interest of both you and the daroga, Danielle?" he asked playfully. The Persian started and glanced over at him before standing. He offered Danielle a small, almost knowing bow before disappearing into the crowd. She watched him go warily, wondering why he made her so suspicious.

Jacques shrugged it off easily and threw his arm around his younger sister. "Why are you sitting over here, Danni? You love the masked balls." She shrugged, and huffed as another domino that wasn't Erik came in the door. The managers glanced at the grand doors warily and started whispering to each other, but she didn't notice. Jacques suddenly pushed her animal mask into her hands. "Come on, Danni, time you had a dance." He gave her only enough time to tie it on before dragging her onto the floor.

The musicians picked up a new pace, and everyone on the floor called for a snowball. Jacques forced his sister to quickstep until she was laughing. The crowd whirled by as he danced faster. When the cry for a switch came, Danielle gratefully pushed him away and snatched Maurice Giry as he came down the stairs. Meg's son was younger by a few years, but he was the sweetest thing. At odds with his adorable boyish grin, he had picked up a rather saucy sense of humor from spending most of his life in the ballet dormitories. "Good to see you up," he said, "Jacques was worried about you." Danielle smiled and forced him into a series of intricate steps that he just kept pace with until they called for another switch. Maurice spun her around gracefully, a move he'd probably picked up in the dormitories, and grabbed some other girl from the floor.

As Danielle stood catching her breath, a dancer behind her took her arm and turned her around, sweeping her up into the dance. He was all in snowy white, from his gold embroidered coat to the plain domino concealing most of his face. Danielle had to check her step to his familiar movement before she met his eyes.

"Erik!"

"Angel." He grinned and nosed his mask against the long muzzle of hers.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," she muttered, but he placed a finger on her lips.

"I'm sorry I worried you," he said sincerely, leaning close to speak secretly in her ear. He squeezed her hand, and Danielle sighed happily and leaned a little closer.

Across the room, Richard stepped away from Moncharmin to call to someone outside the doors.

The music faded to the background as Erik and Danielle mounted the marble steps. "I wish I could say how gratefully I am," he said quietly, and Danielle took off her mask, "but even that sounds weak. Ever since you came back…" He stopped and shook his head, moving her in a pirouette. They paused at the top of the steps, Danielle's back against his strong chest and his arms wrapped around her. Her hand on his wrist finally made him give up the search for words and lean over her. Danielle tilted her head back and kissed him.

For a moment, they both thought that the world had stopped for them. Everything went still, waiting. The world was just for them, filled with the music pulsing in perfect harmony through their veins.

Then Danielle glanced down the stairs. The party had frozen to a dead standstill. By the open doors, the managers were standing in dumb shock, staring at the O.G. from so long ago. Raoul and Christine were looking up at them, she grabbing his arm. The Persian stood stone still, watching the two knowingly before beginning to move towards them. The only other people to move were the dozen men, all wearing blue and swinging rifles off their shoulders.

"Erik," she hissed, and his arms tensed around her. His eyes flashed dangerously as he took in the guards, and he held her tighter as the floor seemed to shift. Every in the party suddenly gasped, and the world went dark.

The next thing Danielle knew, she and Erik hit the ground. He leapt to his feet and reached up to the dark ceiling, breaking off some piece of the trapdoor that had dropped them through the floor. Danielle blinked, wide-eyed in the dark, and looked around, pushing her hair out of her face.

They had fallen into a world of illusion. Everything was reflected and multiplied, shining with a cool, glassy texture. It was like a vision out of some fantasy, a world from some ancient time forgotten and left behind. It all had an otherworldly feel to it. She had to outstretch her hand to make sure what she saw was real. The cool glass under her hand was real enough. There were dozens of mirrors, lining every wall, multiplying and reflecting the dim light hundreds of times. A single candle could have been a noonday's sun in this room. Yet an uneasy sense of ancient malice hung in the air. As she drew her hand back, a hundred more did the same thing. Danielle stood and looked over as Erik dropped his hand from the ceiling.

"Erik, what do the police want with you?" she asked worriedly. He stared at her for a moment, and then looked meaningfully at the mirrors. Danielle stared around at them with sudden realization, remembering what her father had told her of the phantom's torture chamber. She raised a hand to her neck at the thought of Buquet. "You mean…" Erik ran his hand through his hair at a loss. His eyes took on the caged look that he had in the dark, a hunted look that sparked sudden determination in Danielle.

The young woman growled and started pulling at the belt of ribbons round her waist. Erik stared, perplexed, as she pulled the skirt and ribbons off, leaving only her black pants and shirt. She dropped the rest in a corner and tied her hair back. "Give me your mask, Erik." He blinked at her and met her eyes again. He shook his head incredulously.

"No." Danielle straightened her back and took a deep breath. Her eyes glistened in the gloom as she held out her hand.

"You have to get away." Erik winced at the effort she put into saying that. It took her a minute to compose herself before she could speak again. "Please. Let me help."

"Danielle, Angel, I can't let you do that. You'll be putting yourself in danger." He hated himself for it, but he forced himself to push gruffly past her, trying to get away. Danielle's hand grabbed his sleeve and dragged him back around to face her. Her eyes didn't meet his for a moment as she took a steeling breath.

"I'll stay hidden. I can draw them off. They'll think I'm you." His expression hardened, but Danielle ignored it. With a frustrated sigh she grabbed his coat and started pulling it off. "This will only draw attention." She dropped the magnificent coat on the pile of her clothes unceremoniously. "I can wear your cloak, wherever it is. No one will tell the difference." Her voice was hushed, now, and she reached her hand to touch his mask fleetingly before stepping back. Erik studied her in the dim light, how she tried to push all emotion out of her eyes lest it overwhelm her. Their reflections waited like sentinels in the glass.

"Don't hide like that," he said, pushing stray tendrils of her hair away. He finally sighed and touched his mask. Danielle watched silently as he pulled it off, weighing it in his hands. He waited for her gasp of fear, for anything to show her terror, but she only gently took the porcelain from his hands and slipped it over her own brow.

"Necessity has a cruel irony to it," he laughed thoughtfully. Danielle smiled as she studied his face in the dim light. He had kept it hidden for too long. She tried to suppress the thought, tried so hard, but it rose unbidden…_When will I see his face again?_

"Where's your opera cape?" she forced herself to say. Erik turned and hurried out of the palace of illusions with her close in tow. He pulled his high-collared cloak out of a hidden cupboard at the first corner they came to. He draped it around her shoulders and then cupped her chin in his fingers, making her look up at him.

"Promise me that you'll be careful." Danielle flashed a smile, but it faltered slightly at the end as she looked down. Her fingers traced his palm.

"I wish you didn't have to g—" Someone suddenly shouted down the hall, and they both jumped. Danielle's hand bit into his palm nervously, and he stared off down the corridor anxiously. He took her hand more firmly in his and pulled her after him, hurrying down the hall.

"I'll go through the frame in the cellars," he said as he glanced warily around the corners of hallways. The frame in the cellars. That was the one draped in velvet, the one Danielle didn't know where it led. Erik stopped and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Be safe, my Angel." His lips brushed her cheek briefly, and then he was gone.

She stared after him for a moment as he disappeared down the hallway, and then pulled the mask down over her eyes and pushed open a door. She ran through the deserted workshop and opened the door into the main hallway. Three of the _gendarme_ stood with their backs to her, muttering to each other. Danielle stole like a wraith behind them and grabbed at the small wooden ledge hallway up the wall. Her fingers found the hidden spring, and a cramped alcove appeared behind the false wall. She hoisted herself into it and swung the wood back to lean out into the hall. The men were still oblivious to her as she grabbed the cloak.

"Here, monsieurs, are you looking for me?" She laughed as deeply as she could and gave the cloak a voluminous flourish before jumping back and shutting the wall. Her heart raced as she pressed her ear to it and listened to the men run past her hiding place. Catching her breath, she counted to ten, leapt to the floor, and hurried back the way Erik had gone.

They ghosted through the whole Opera, sneaking and backtracking, constantly circumventing the police until they probably thought that the house was haunted. Danielle finally stopped and turned around, standing guard against anyone following. They had reached the passage that led down to the cellars; there was no other way down unless the police stumbled upon a secret door. Erik paused behind her, both of them catching their breath and trying to ease the adrenaline rushing through their veins.

"Danielle," he said, and she turned to him. He felt like he was looking at a mirror, she wearing the mask instead of him. His hand gently pulled it above her eyes. "I can't say—"

She stopped him and waved her hand down the corridor, putting her own back on the mask. "Go!" she whispered. Even in the half-light, his face conjured nothing but love within her. He hesitated, his hand falling away from the mask. Footsteps echoed distantly through the corridors, and they both rued them. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then slipped into the shadows near the walls. "Go," she mouthed again, gently, fearful of speaking past the lump in her throat. Finally, with a motion as if he were fighting against a tide, Erik turned and vanished into the cellars.

Danielle sighed heavily and leaned against the cold walls. Her hand quivered faintly as she reached up to remove the mask. It stilled, though, on the smooth surface as her eyes went wide. Those footsteps weren't echoing distantly anymore, they were right down the hall. Danielle hastily jumped in front of an adjoining corridor, lingering in plain sight as her blood began to pound. Her muscles knotted and her breathing snagged nervously as she stood, poised on the verge of flight.

One single _gendarme _appeared around the corner, a young boy, really, yet still looking regal in the blue uniform of the police. He couldn't have been five years older than her. He stopped dead when he saw her, and before he could catch a glimpse of anything but the mask and cloak, Danielle spun away and dove into the corridor, racing away from Erik. She heard the man gasp behind her and fumble for his rifle. His boots pounded louder than hers as she led him on such a wild goose-chase that she lost track of where she was.

They raced past shut doors and more corridors, stone walls and gas lights repeating maddeningly. The boy was too close behind, and Danielle put on a desperate burst of speed, her cloak billowing out behind her. The main foyer loomed before them unexpectedly, and Danielle didn't miss a step. People shouted and cried as she and the young guard plunged into them, she shoving people aside, bobbing and weaving through the crowd. The rifle hampered the guard as he tried to shout people out of the way instead of unceremoniously pushing through them. Green flashed in front of Danielle, and she suddenly reined in her mad dash as Raoul appeared before her. His mask was gone, and his eyes flashed recognition, but whether he realized it was his daughter or his rival, she couldn't be sure. With a faltering step she frantically pushed past him and leapt gratefully for a dim hall. The guard muscled through the crowd behind her, but it bought her a few extra minutes. At the second corner she paused, gasping for breath.

Erik loped down the winding path to the cellars. The darkness wrapped around him unnoticed, unfamiliar. Some part of him cursed it, cursed his fate that it forced him to come back down into this black abyss. But if the guard knew he was still down here, realized that the elusive phantom was still sheltering beneath the Opera House, they would gladly burn it down and smoke him out.

He had to leave Paris behind. He had to leave Danielle behind. What had she done, he asked himself painfully, to make him regret that so much?

Danielle panted, leaning against the wall, listening warily for the rapport of boots behind her. It never once passed her mind to take off the mask and ruin the charade, risk them finding Erik when he still hadn't left the Opera. Her breathing suddenly froze as she heard not a mad dash of footsteps, but instead the ominous, harsh click of metal that seemed to reverberate in her ears like a death knell. From behind her mask she turned and stared at the guard loading his rifle, spun and sprinted for dear life. A minute later she hit the ground hard, clutching at her arm in agony.

In the cellars, Erik froze as a gunshot suddenly barked from high above. Who could they be shooting at, he thought, if I'm all the way down here? His mind didn't catch up for a long, strained moment. Then with a horrified curse he spun and raced. The climb seemed miles longer than it should have been. He burst free of the cellars, and cried out when he saw Danielle lying on the floor, sprawled beneath the thick opera cloak, the white mask fallen away. His breath choked in his throat and he fell to his knees beside her, scooping his angel into his arms. She cried out, and Erik quickly drew his hand back stained ruby red with blood.

"Oh, Danielle," he whispered and laid her in his lap. He ripped a piece of his shirt off without hesitation and delicately pried her hand away from her upper arm. The blood barely showed on her black clothes, but it painted Erik's white suit with a cruel vividness. She moaned as he tied the knot snug, her hand suddenly grasping his shoulder urgently and pulling him close.

It was only then that Erik looked up. The young guard was staring at Danielle in horror, his hand quaking on the gun. He opened his mouth a few times to no avail, and was about to apologize to Erik when he finally looked at him. The horror in his eyes turned to near terror, and he raised his rifle back to his cheek. Erik stared at the barrel of the gun, frozen, kneeling over his wounded angel.

She suddenly had her feet beneath her, and leaned all her weight on Erik's shoulders as she staggered to stand. He protested, grabbing her waist as she swayed, but she firmly grabbed him. It was his fear of her falling that kept her in front of him, before him and the barrel.

"Go, Erik," she whispered, determined not to fall. It took effort to unclench her hands from around him, but she stood her own ground. She heard the metal of the trigger creak.

The gunshot took them all by surprise. It wasn't the sound of a police's rifle, but a pistol. Erik stared past Danielle's shoulder as she unsteadily turned round to stare at Raoul. The bullet hole in the woodworking of the rifle was still smoking as he landed a heavy right hook on the guard's chin. He crumpled to the floor limply just as Christine appeared, holding her skirts as if she had been running. The pistol was raised automatically at Erik and Danielle before he realized who he was aiming at.

Raoul's arm wavered as he saw them, Danielle's grip on the sleeve of Erik's supporting arm so hard that it shook. Christine sighed and put a hand to her breast as the vicomte dropped the pistol to his side in shock.

Erik finally let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "It's alright, Danielle," he whispered gently in her ear, his arm enveloping her shaking frame. She turned her hazel eyes to him, nearly fever-bright with exhaustion and fear. "It's all right." Her panting slowly gave way to an exhausted sigh as her hand loosened its clawed grip on him. He caught her as she fainted away, kneeling down with her limp body cradled in his arms. When he looked up, he found Christine beside him, gently touching her daughter's cool brow.

Raoul stood unnaturally still, watching them with a far-off gaze. Erik recognized the look in his eyes, the vicomte battling with himself. Voices called down through the hallways to the cellars, but they dissolved in that thick silence.

"Raoul," he finally said. His voice cracked as he said it, but he knew what must be done. The vicomte shook himself. Erik rose from the floor with Danielle rocking in his arms, breathing faintly against his chest. He looked down at her with a determined, resigned strength. "She needs to go home." Raoul contemplated him for a moment before lifting his daughter out of his arms, leaving the thick opera cloaked draped in them lifelessly. Erik forcefully tore his gaze away from her to meet the vicomte's eyes. Christine touched Raoul's arm.

"Go," she said, such a simple farewell. Raoul and Erik stared each other down until Danielle moaned quietly, as though she could perceive what was happening even unconscious. Raoul shifted her closer and nodded.

"Go, Erik." With backwards steps, he looked back as long as he could. Just as he disappeared again into the cellars, the clatter of guards sounded behind the vicomte and his wife. Christine spun around first, Raoul supporting the weight of his daughter. Three police rushed around the corner and halted at the sight of the corridor: the unconscious guard, Christine flushed in her bright yellow dress, and Raoul holding the girl with a blood-soaked bandage around her arm. Christine jumped into action first.

"Guards, look what he has done!" she cried. Her hand waved insistently down the opposite hallway. "He's gone that way. Hurry!" Without a word the three men about-faced and rushed down the corridor, heading far away from the cellars.


	8. Take Your Heart Back

**Author's Notes:** Hiya folks! blows kisses Okay, really not alot of action in this chapter, but there is alot of _stuff._ If that makes any sense. I did have lots of fun writing this. Of course, I love your reading and reviewing! Hope you enjoy, the next chapter will be up shortly since these two pretty much go together.

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Chapter 8 – Take Your Heart Back

The cold January night bit into Christine's skin as she descended the steps in front of their town house. Frost rimmed the garden pots framing the door, glistened on the metal arm of the bench in the garden beside the house. She held her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her breath forming a little crystalline cloud before disappearing into the dark. Her steps carried her down the little path until she stopped and peered up to the balcony outside her daughter's room.

Christine could see the corner of his dark cloak eve before she stepped off the path onto the soft tilled earth of the garden. A peach-colored winter rose brushed her arm as she paused, looked up at the balcony dimly lit by the sickle moon.

"Erik," she called softly. The name sounded foreign on her tongue, and she wondered vaguely why she had never learned it before. But no, he had been so inhuman then, something unbound and wild, far beyond the limits of any name. Then he had been the Phantom. Now, though…

"Erik," she called again, a little impatient at being made to wait in the cold calling to a man she wasn't sure she should even want speak to again. The shadows leaning against the wall shifted, the cloak twitching back over the edge. The Erik that came to lean on the railing, though, was definitely a man, a very weary and heart-sick man. His black cloak and mask hid him well until he stood, a shadow that would have loomed over her if he had not been so obviously tried by worry. His gloved hands grasped the railing as he leaned heavily on it, looking down at her. The silence stretched as Christine marveled at the change in him. He had always been foreboding and commanding, invincible even as he had ordered her to leave with Raoul. But it seemed he had finally met his match.

_And I thought that he had loved me. _She managed to brush aside the cool indifference she had built up against him enough to realize this. "Come inside," she said, "it's far too cold for you to be out here." She was doing it for Danielle, she knew. Otherwise she probably would never have even considered the offer, rather ignore him and pretend she was oblivious to his presence outside her home. She wasn't sure how long he had been out here. He took on a wary stance at her offer, but Christine calmly turned her back and walked back to the front of the house. Better that she find him than Raoul. Her husband had firmly rooted himself outside Danielle's door, watching over her restless sleep. In fact, he had probably fallen asleep in that uncomfortable chair, unaware that he was not alone as her guardian.

Christine left the door open and went to the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. When she glanced over her shoulder, setting down three cups on the table, Erik was standing in the corner. She knew he would never admit it, but he did look grateful for the warmth. Color was slowly returning to his pale cheeks, and she suddenly wondered exactly how long he had been out on that balcony.

"You can sit," she said, turning back to the whistling kettle. He warily pulled a chair back and sat down tensely. Christine sighed as she poured the tea. He had nearly killed her husband, on more than one occasion, and now she had invited him into her own house! Out of pity, she supposed. How on earth had things led to this? Erik was sitting warily at her table, Raoul and her daughter upstairs while she made tea for them. For a moment, it almost all seemed natural. She seemed to be doing a lot of wondering lately. She couldn't even begin to think of what to say to him. She set the tea down, careful not to touch him, and took the seat opposite.

He didn't look the least bit guilty at having been found trespassing. She had been wrong: he still had that air of power around him. He took a quiet mouthful of tea and set it back down, staring distractedly out the window. Christine was afraid he might break the teacup with the grip he had on it.

"Where will you go?" she finally asked. Erik didn't even blink, still staring out into the night.

"I don't know. There are still places I have yet to see." He seemed to be purposefully avoiding speaking of Danielle, but Christine could see how he swallowed hard as he paused. "But you would probably rather see me in prison, wouldn't you?" He said it so bluntly, so unfeelingly, that Christine took a minute to take in what he had said.

She started when she did. "I would," she said softly, peering down at her cup, "see you at a safe distance from us. There have been too many…incidents between us. But I wouldn't see you locked away, behind bars like an animal in a cage."

He knew she said it out of ignorance, but a sharp pain stabbed through him at her words. He found his old sarcasm on his tongue in simple defense. "Incidents," he repeated. "You've learned an aristocrat's diction."

"Too many times you've tried to kill Raoul," she exchanged. "Too many times you've put my family in danger." His weak half-smile died, and Christine found that she resented her words slightly. With a sigh, she stood and went back to the counter. The thin china of her cup clattered as she put it down and placed her hands on the countertop. "Why are you here, Erik?"

He was silent at the table for a long time. She half hoped that he had left without a sound. Then he was suddenly beside her, cautiously placing something on the counter before withdrawing to the window. Christine stared down at her engagement ring, glinting magnificently on the marble near her hand. She fingered it almost disbelievingly as Erik sighed silently and leaned against the sill.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she asked faintly, turning to look at him. His back was impenetrable as he stared out longingly to the night, up at the sickle moon.

"Because I don't need it anymore," he said quietly. "That ring has obsessed me. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going. Others, it was the object of all my anguish. But I don't need it anymore. I'm returning it to you." Watching his back, Christine managed to read everything he had not said.

Love was not defined by this ring anymore. Erik had, finally, moved on.

With a sigh, she came forward and took his hand. The ring sparkled againt the black leather of his gloved palm before she closed his hand around it, just like all those years ago. "I gave it to you. Even if you don't need it anymore, that doesn't mean that you can't keep it." She pushed his closed hand to his chest and stepped back. "Maybe now it can be a bright spot in your past to look back on."

She left him standing by the window as she went back to wash her cup. The sudden knock on the door was unbelievably loud to the two in the kitchen. With one last glance at Erik, Christine walked out into the hall and opened the door. The boy standing on the steps blushed at her night-robe and swept off his hat, giving a respectful bow.

"Bonsoir, Madame de Chagny. Forgive me for interrupting your night like this." When she didn't respond, staring at him curiously, he dipped another bow. "I'm Francois Nereaux." It was then that she noticed the neat uniform he wore, the blue of the _gendarme _nearly black in the dim glow of the distant streetlamps.

"Good evening, M Nereaux. How may I help you?" She subtly barred the entrance, wary of him finding Erik. She hadn't lied, she would rather see Erik hiding away than trapped in the steel cage of a prison cell. The boy seemed naively oblivious to her subtlety, though, and gestured into the house.

"May I come in?" She couldn't find a good excuse to forbid him. He stepped past her graciously, and she suddenly held her breath as he entered the kitchen first.

The room was empty, the washed cup sitting on the countertop and the breeze coming in the opened window fluttering the drapes. Christine quickly feigned getting another cup down from the cupboard so that he would not realize that tea had been made for three.

"You aren't cold with the window open, Madame?" he asked, moving to shut it against the cold breeze.

"I needed the fresh air, monsieur," she said simply as she set the tea back on the table. With a start, she realized that Erik's cup was still there where Francois had sat, and she swept it up quickly. His eyes were sharp as he watched her. "Now what brings you to my home so late at night, M Nereaux?"

A blush crept into his young cheeks again, and Christine first noticed the bruise staining the line of his jaw, exactly where a right hook would have landed. "Well," he stammered, "I—uh…I wanted to inquire as to the health of the young mademoiselle." He sipped his tea distractedly, hiding his blush behind the china. Christine placed a hand to her breast as she realized that he was the guard from the cellars, the one Raoul had struck. "She's…she's doing well," she said, shaking her head free of this revelation. How much did the boy remember? "How are you fairing?"

"Well, my head doesn't hurt anymore. But, I had to come to…" She nearly sighed with relief as he looked away ashamedly. Even if he did know that Raoul had been the one to knock him out, he was more concerned with Danielle. "I've come to apologize. Under no circumstances should I have shot. I just, didn't realize that it wasn't the target. I thought she was the man we were looking for." His eyes were so woefully apologetic that Christine smiled at him kindheartedly.

"We're not pressing charges, Francois. It was a misunderstanding. We don't blame you for what happened. The _gendarmes_ aren't even aware it was you."

"That's the other reason I've come," he said more confidently. "Do you know anything about the man who was the target? The management said that they had had problems before. He…he and the mademoiselle…It seemed that he was going to try and take her away. I assumed it was by force."

"Monsieur, I don't think you have to worry about him coming back for her. Danielle should be quite safe—"

"Madame, I'm not so sure. He did escape us." For such a young boy, he was very persistent. Christine shook her head and folded her arms imperiously.

"Monsieur Nereaux, I appreciate your concern for my daughter's well being, but that will be enough. The management of the Opera is superstitious and slightly paranoid. The previous incidents they mentioned were twenty years ago. I assure you that no harm will come to us from that man again." Her tone was just enough to override his sense of determination, at least for the time being. Christine wrapped her shawl around her and escorted him out to the door, wishing him a good night before closing it. Francois stood on the steps staring at the door for a minute before turning down the street. He paused at the side garden of the Chagny's house, thinking that he had seen a shadow near one of the upper floors, but then decided that the night was playing tricks on him. Perhaps Madame de Chagny was right, but he was determined to repay his debt to the young mademoiselle. Somehow.

The night was comfortingly familiar as Erik scaled the side of the house back to the balcony. He paused at the French glass doors, watching the faint moonlight fall through and cast blue light around his dark shadow. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had held her last. Just seeing her pale from lying on the bed quickened his heart, rose the sound of his blood in his ears. But with it rose the guilt, the suffocating guilt he felt would choke him.

The doors opened quietly, and he slipped inside. His thick cloak melded with the shadows of her room, but for once he didn't mind. He was like a cat, cautiously stepping from the doors towards her bed, like a subservient sinner towards the altar, afraid he would misstep.

His poor Angel was so pale. He felt his throat constrict as he pulled off his glove, the soft bed shifting beneath him as he sat at its edge. Did he even dare to touch her, to trail his cursed fingers over her innocent skin? She was here because of him. Curse it, he loved her. He hadn't been able to admit it, but Erik had fallen in love. Her skin was hot beneath his hand as he touched her arm, brushing back the hair from her face. The white bandage was a cruel testament to what he had done to her.

Why had he ever let her take his mask? He guiltily withdrew his hand when Danielle suddenly stirred and reached out towards him. "Erik," she moaned, and he leaned closer, taking her hand gently in his own. His thumb caressed her palm as she weakly held it, his other hand touching her cheek. She shivered and turned her hand to his touch. "Don't," she murmured, sighing against the pillow. "Don't let it be over. Don't let the music end." Her plea wrenched his fragile heart, and he leaned closer to kiss her pale brow.

"Never, Angel," he soothed, pressing her warm fingers in turn to his lips. "You are my music." At the sound of his voice she relaxed, surrendering to the gentleness of his touch. A brief smile crossed her lips, and then her hand unexpectedly cringed in his. She whimpered in her sleep as some fever dream claimed a hold of her.

Just as Erik began to gather her in his arms, the door to her room swung quietly open, letting the light fall in a pool across the floor. The strong figure of the Vicomte stood silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He took in the scene silently, the phantom and his mask leaning over his daughter for the second time in as many days. Erik didn't expect a warm welcome.

"You can't seem to get rid of me, M le Vicomte," he said softly. Raoul stared at him until glancing down at his daughter concernedly. Erik disarmingly stood from the bed, surrendering Danielle back to the pillow. "I must thank you, Vicomte, for the courage you passed on to your daughter. It has saved the both of us more than once."

"That is her own gift. I don't think I can take credit for it." Raoul looked at Erik with a new light. From any other man, that would have been an apology. From Erik, it sounded like a favor Raoul should be thanking him for. But it was, he was almost sure, still an apology. He couldn't deny the soft emotion he could see in Erik's luminous eyes as he looked down at Danielle. What Christine had said that one night suddenly rose in his mind. _You're the kind of father that just doesn't want to see his daughter grow up…_

He didn't know what he had been about to say, but Erik cut him off before he could find out. "She has a fever," he said, gathering his thick cloak around him. With a small sigh and a still wary glance, Raoul stepped back into the hallway to grab a cool towel. When he turned back to the room, Erik was gone. He went to the open doors onto the balcony and looked over the railing, but even there, the man was no where in sight. Christine's footsteps rose from the stairs as he shut the doors, and she appeared at the door to the bedroom, staring at him with a cup of tea in hand.

---

A few days after the disaster of the masked ball, the Persian stood pacing restlessly in his sitting room. Darius appeared in the doorway, looking slightly anxious beneath his normally stoic appearance. "There is a man at the door, master, giving his name as Erik and insisting to see the daroga." The Persian ordered to have him seen in immediately.

Erik staggered in, looking weak and frail underneath his heavy cloak. The Persian glared at him coldly. "What have you done to Danielle Daae de Chagny?" he demanded. The phantom leaned against the frame of the doorway and shook his head sadly.

"Daroga, I'm—"

"What has happened?" he cut in, gesturing impatiently. "The girl was carried out in her father's arms with a bloody rag tied around her arm, cold and pale as death. As you," he added harshly. "What did you do to her?"

"I'm dying, Nadir," he said weakly, and the daroga paused. "I'm dying of love, daroga. She risked her life for me."

"And now where is she?"

"With her family," Erik muttered distractedly, "my poor Angel." He leaned harder against the frame as if he were about to fall. The face behind his black mask looked pale and weary.

"This is all the same as the last time," Nadir argued gently, "when you loved Christine."

"No, daroga," Erik snapped, taking on a stronger pallor. "That was different. I thought I loved Christine, but you cannot love someone who will never love you back. She was the first person who ever took notice of me. She didn't love me. She showed me what love meant. But Danielle loves me." He said this as if even he could hardly believe it. "And I love her. She risked her life to protect me. When your friends the police showed up," he growled dangerously, "we fell into the mirror-room."

"You took that child into the torture chamber!" Nadir cried, but Erik shook his head and finally fell into a seat.

"It is no more a torture chamber than this is, anymore, Nadir. She insisted that I escape, though we both knew it painted her like a knife to the heart to say it. She took my mask and drew off the guards." The hand he pressed to his eyes trembled slightly. "She could have died, trying to protect me, but she let me get away."

"Erik, I did not call the _gendarme_," Nadir said, looking at the man wearily slumped in the armchair. "The management must have learned that you were still there."

"It does not matter," Erik said dismissively. "I cannot let it happen to her again. So I am leaving."

"Why are you telling me this?" Nadir asked, his anger completely forgotten.

"I cannot go without even a word to someone who may pass it to Danielle. She said that she often comes to have tea with you." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope, sealed with his elaborate red stamp. He handed it to Nadir. "This is for her, but you mustn't give it to her unless she comes here. It is not to leave your house except in her hands." Erik sighed and stood as if it pained him. At the masquerade, when Nadir had finally caught sight of him on the steps with Danielle, he had looked so much younger. He had looked like he was twenty years younger, as if the girl had somehow transformed him and given him a new life. Now, he looked as if he had gained more than his share of years back. Nadir watching him carefully, like one watched someone he is afraid might fall at any moment. He glanced down at the envelope in his hands, addressed simply to Mlle Danielle in red ink.

When he looked up, Erik stood in the door, looking stronger after reaching some decision. The years that had seemed to cling to him were slowly giving way to some determined expression. "I am going east. You can tell her that, if she asks."

"I would do no such thing," Nadir suddenly said. "This is you way of protecting her, and it is the least she deserves. I would not take that one gift of yours away."

Erik turned back and smiled wryly beneath his mask. Maybe that moment of age had been just an illusion. "Trust me, dear daroga, if she asked, you would not be able to keep even that small fact from her." He turned and strode determinedly down the hall, opening the door. Nadir called to him from the entrance to the sitting room.

"You have a different mask, Erik." He imagined the wry smile crept back onto Erik's face again, though he didn't turn back. His cloaked figure was silhouetted in the doorway, the streetlights giving him a soft halo against the night.

"I am not leaving Paris as the phantom," he replied cryptically. "Goodbye, Nadir, and farewell."

---

Warm, dappled light slanted in through the windows, bringing with it the calls of the little song birds still left in Paris. The few trees swayed in a lazy wind that stirred the crisp leaves on the ground. One of the birds alighted on the banister of the balcony, chirping cheerily at the glass. It twittered when a shaft of sunlight fell on her hand and she stirred.

Danielle blinked slowly at the bird. It hopped around on the railing, singing her awake. A yawn cracked her jaws as she levered herself up to a sitting position. She lifted a hand to brush her mussed hair straighter, but suddenly winced as she moved her left arm. The little bird squeaked in commiseration. The young woman's hand felt at the soft sling tied around her neck, supporting her arm, touched the clean bandages wrapped around it, having trouble remembering why she would be wearing them. She looked out at the song bird curiously as it ruffled its feathers against the wind.

The door opened, and Danielle gratefully breathed in the refreshing air. The stone was cold beneath her toes, but she didn't mind. Frost condensed into drops of cool water beneath her palm as she steadied herself against the banister, smiling at the bird. It chirped happily at her before fluttering its wings and flitting off.

"Oh, you're awake!" Christine cried from behind her, and her arms were around Danielle before she was aware her mother was even there. "It's good to see you up and about. How do you feel?"

"Fine," Danielle stammered in confusion, her memory still a long mile behind her. Her mother's hands on her shoulder were steadying as she turned her daughter towards her. Christine looked radiant and delighted in the morning light. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"It's the third of January. Only two days," she said comfortingly. Her fingers deftly untangled her daughter's hair and pushed it back from her face. "Not that long really. Cauterizing that wound would have put anyone under for that long." She adjusted the tie of the sling absently. "But come and have breakfast, you must be starving." Danielle was about to protest when her stomach suddenly agreed for her with a loud growl. She laughed and nodded enthusiastically. She felt restless after being in bed so long.

Raoul kissed her cheek as he brushed past her to sit across the table. Christine went to fix some more tea, that from the night long gone cold. She listened as Raoul helped Danielle to stretch out her arm. It reminded her so much of when her daughter had been little and would scrape up her knees. Raoul would be making the same encouragements against Danielle's same determined winces. Their daughter sighed in relief as he finally let her rest her arm on the table and untied the bandages. The wound was still more scab than scar, and Danielle touched it briefly. The back of her arm had a neat hole in it, but the front was more like a little star from where they had cut out the bullet. Raoul smiled as he unwound some fresh bandages. "Now you'll have a nice scar to boast about to your brother." She laughed.

"Where is Jacques?"

"He's gone to Nicola's. We sent him and Maurice away after about a half hour. They're worse than hens with chicks." They both laughed at that. Christine set a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table and sat down.

"So is there no performance at the Opera today?" she asked innocently. Her voice fell, though, when Raoul and Christine shared a glance. Her face paled until Christine was afraid that she might faint. Danielle's memories caught up to her, then, and she snatched her arm to her chest, leaning back in her chair fearfully. "What…Where…" Only single syllable questions were willing to form on her tongue. The cellars, the race, the pain. And then the icy fear that Erik wouldn't get away. She shook her head and stared at both of them.

Christine reached out and cupped her daughter's hands in her own. "We let him go," she said gently. Danielle's spine lost some of its rigidness as her eyes flicked to Raoul. "He's gone." Silence reined over the morning. Danielle's shoulders slumped weakly as she looked down at the grain of the table.

"You love him, don't you." Raoul's voice was firm, expecting an answer. Father and daughter fixed eyes on each other.

"You didn't see, Papa," she said, looking down at her hands to steel herself. "When you took off his mask. You didn't see. You only saw what you expected, what you wanted to see: a monster, a murderer. You didn't see the sorrow in his eyes. The regret, the remorse. The pain. And because you didn't see it he forgot about it. It's hard to know yourself when you're afraid to look in the mirror."

"You didn't answer my question," he prompted softly. She looked up at him again, her hands stilling.

"Yes, father," she whispered.

"Then you're going to follow him, aren't you." It wasn't really a question.

"I have to. I know you don't—"

"You don't have to explain, Danielle," he suddenly said softly. She blinked at him in confusion. Raoul sighed and took her hands across the table, holding them in his own strong grip. "When Christine and I found you both in the cellars, the way you looked at me before you fell…" He paused. "I didn't want to admit it. You had such conviction in your eyes, defending him like that. You love him. You love Erik the same way that I love your mother. You're willing to sacrifice yourself for him. I guess Christine was right: you are your father's daughter."

She sat stunned for a moment before smiling and throwing her arms around him tightly, ignoring the pain in her arm. Raoul patted her back gently, finally beginning to accept that his daughter was growing up and he couldn't stop it.

---

They let her take the carriage to the Opera House. Poling the boat across the lake was agonizingly slow and painful, but no petty staff was going to stop Danielle. When she reached the cove, she had to relight most of the candles. She slowly ascended the stone steps to the organ, feeling like a ghost from when she had first come here. The silence reminded her too much o f a cemetery: empty and reverent.

A red rose sat on the keyboard, the black ribbon shining as if spilled over the ivory keys. Danielle picked it up and pressed it to her lips, breathing in the sweet, mournful fragrance. She didn't let the tears that threatened to spill from her lashes. _You told him to go,_ she reminded herself. _He had to leave._ When she opened her eyes, she saw the polished leather folder leaning against the pipes, the front gleaming with embossed gold foil, the letters curling around each other.

FENRIS' CRY

The folder was filled with every last sheet of the composition, inked into its final, finished copy. Tucked into the thin pocket in thee front was a small note, written in red ink.

_I wish I could have heard it finished._

That was all it said.

As her eyes lingered on the simple words, searching vainly for anything more, light strains of music drifted through the cove. Danielle looked around, turning her head to the sound. Her hand touched the broken piece of string tied to the note. She followed the sound up through the scattered furniture, the loose sheets of paper and tall candles, until she stood next toe the carved bed, still holding the note and the rose. The little music box seemed lonesome as it played, the chimp sadly ringing his cymbals together. She absently ran her fingers over the base to find the little drawer, but it was locked and unmoving when she tried to open it. A box sat on the bed, tied with the same black ribbon, and Danielle pulled it loose. Nestled into the box was a dress, black and gold and white lace, a little silk rose clipped to the shoulder. Placing the note and rose carefully on the sheets, the young woman slipped off her own clothes and pulled it on.

Danielle stared at her own reflection when she came to stand before the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, beautifully. The gold lace of the skirt hung down to her bare ankles, a dark sash tied around her waist. Her shoulders were bare, and the white lace bands that fell from her shoulders covered the scar on her arm. As her hand moved to pin the flower in her hair, she froze.

"This is Aminta's dress," she breathed. Her hand reached out to touch the mirror. The frame was draped in velvet, and where the other looking glasses were still lying on the ground where she had put them, shattered and fractured, this one was smooth as lake water. She pushed the drapery back over the frame and ran her palm over the cool surface. This was the passage that Erik had come through when she first met him, the one he had escaped through after the masquerade.

This is where he was going, she realized as she looked at her reflection in the dress again. He said he would leave Paris, and he had taken his _Don Juan Triumphant _with him. Danielle touched the glass once more, her fingerprints fogging its cool surface, and found herself considering breaking it. Maybe then it would lead her to Erik. But no, that path was strewn across Europe now, entwined in the music of his own play. All he had left her was her reflection and their music.

* * *

* * *

**Author's End Notes:** OOoh, first end note. happy dances So, what did you think? SOrry it's so much, but it all needs to be in one chapter. It just has to be. K, I can't put it in the right font online, but where it says _Fenris' Cry, _imagine it in Word in BlackAdder script. So cool! That's how it's meant to be.

I write all this stuff to music, come up with most of the scenes while listening to the soundtrack. So at the very end, picture Danielle very slowly waling up and standing in front of the mirror to the last minute of "Track Down this Murderer" (the last song, pretty much I LOVE those chords the violins play, and that's pretty much how I picture what I wrote. grinz So if you appreciate music, you can bother to go and reread it like that.


	9. So the World Won't Find You

Chapter 9 – So the World Won't Find You

Danielle promised her parents to wait a week before setting out to find Erik, to regain her strength. Christine helped her to pack, and Raoul gave her a purse full of money for her travels. Jacques and Nicola gave her a small journal with gilt edges. Danielle secreted the dress and music into the bottom of the suitcase. She even snipped the rose off its stem and pressed it into the middle of the journal. At night, her parents told her everything about everywhere they had traveled, and Danielle took it all in with the same fervor she would have an epic story. With three days left, she took one of the Opera's horses and rode through the streets, picking up last minute items and food.

The man behind one of the fruit stalls smiled and handed her a bag full of dried fruit. Danielle smiled and put it the messenger bag hanging by her hip. The apple crunched as she bit her teeth into it, the sweet juice flooding her mouth. The horse, Dolce, whinnied back at the stalls as she started to pull at its reins, and she laughed and bought a handful of oats.

"Insistent, aren't you?" she said, holding her palm up to his nose. The horse flicked its tail and happily nosed her hand once it was empty. Danielle gave the reins a congenial tug and moved on down the street, taking in the city she had been born and raised in.

As she perused the stalls, picking something up once in awhile and depositing it in her bag, the horse whickered at the coaches. A poster fixed to one of the stalls caught Danielle's eye. A fair was on the outskirts of the city, it proclaimed, and leaving today. The woman behind the stall watched her as she wound Danielle's pocket watch. The young woman probably would have turned away as she accepted her watch if she hadn't glimpsed the bright colors bordering the flier. A contortionist twined around herself in one corner; trapeze artists flew across another; a tiger bared its teeth as if stretch down the paper.

In the bottom corner was a masked man dressed in red plying at a violin, with a little "Don Juan" sketched beneath it.

"Aye, mademoiselle, the fair was quite a sight. They say that the violinist was the best. His music could charm a rabid wolf, I think, or bring the heavens to weep. Just amazing." Danielle's pulse roared through her veins, suddenly, and she scrambled for Dolce's reins. She snatched the pocket watch out of the woman's hand and dropped the francs on the table before vaulting into the saddle. Her heels dug into the horse's flanks, and with a whicker he took off, Paris flying past in a blur as they galloped for the outskirts of the city.

---

Erik rode his black horse besides the bright caravans, swaying easily with the mare's gait. Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_ rested on the pommel of his saddle, his thumb still holding the page "Of the Twilight of the Gods." Too dark a tale for such a day. Saddlebags bounced against his thigh with his violin and score, his cloak draped over the horse's rump. The sun shone bright overhead, feeling exotically warm on his face. It felt good in a way to leave Paris behind, strange to leave his Opera. He was like a wolf forced to leave his own familiar territory, exploring this vast new world. Hidden behind his mask, he still felt on the edges of reality, yet closer than he had ever been before. He only felt closer when he was with Danielle. But then he was in his own marvelous world all together.

"So, Don Juan, is that your traveling mask?" His hands tensed on the mare's reins, and her ears flicked back against her skull as she sensed his apprehension. One of the strongmen's wives sat on the seat of a blue wagon, one of the more subdued pallets, smiling from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Therese, he thought to himself, that was her name. "I still haven't seen you without one on. I quite liked your Red Death one, very nice job."

"I have only been here a week," he offered uneasily, trying to dissuade her. He could manage to be polite, but so many years of solitude had ingrained a certain sense of…self preservation in him. Athena, the mare, champed on the bit in agitation, and Erik patted her neck reassuringly. Therese smiled and went on conversationally.

"Don't worry, everyone has their quirks. Especially here." She flicked the reins on her two horses and leaned back against the blue-painted wood. Erik relaxed in the saddle and rode in silence. The steady beat of Athena's hooves was surprisingly comforting, and he let it lull him into an easy state of mind, musing of where this road would lead him.

"So where did you learn to play?" Therese's voice cut through his thoughts again, and he just managed to veil his glare before she looked back at him. He had been alone in those cellars for too long.

"I've played since I was a boy. An inborn talent, I suppose you could call it. I've always had music in my blood." He smiled to himself faintly. "There's a type of music that's in all living things. A pulsing of the blood in your veins, the breath of your lungs, all conducted by the beat of your heart. But the most beautiful music on this earth is that you hear in the body of another." Erik had shut his eyes, oblivious to the bemused expression on the wife's face. "The perfect harmony of two souls combined, that you can both hear flooding your mind when you touch." Athena shook her head and dipped the reins.

"A musician and a poet. What an artist you are, Don Juan." The sound of cantering hooves suddenly rose from behind them on the road. Erik twisted around in his saddle. A ride horse was pounding down the highway, its rider bent low and her hair blowing from her own speed. A hint of black shimmered for a moment, and Erik dropped his book in shock. His hands scrambled for the reins, and Athena snorted warily. From her seat, Therese glanced over his head.

"Know her?" Erik nodded distractedly. He pulled Athena back beside the wagon as Danielle trotted closer. Therese winked knowingly at him. She flicked her own reins and pulled the wagon forward, letting Erik stay close in its shadow. Danielle slowed beside it, hidden on the other side. He heard her politely ask Therese if she knew where Don Juan was. Erik sighed and shut his eyes, soaking in her voice. When would he ever hear his Angel's voice again?

"I'm sorry, dearie, but he's not here. He left before sunset yesterday, just rode off without a word to me where he was going. I'm sorry you didn't get to hear him play, dear." Erik had to wrestle with himself to keep from calling out to her. He was doing this to protect her. He couldn't let her be put in such danger again because of him, wouldn't let her throw her life away to hide with him across Europe.

"Oh," she said, softly hiding her disappointment. "Well, thank you anyway. Goody day, madame." Erik leaned forward enough to see the back of her head between the horses' reins, the black ribbon fluttering over her shoulder, the flush of her cheeks from her ride. He held his breath and shrunk back into the gloom as she turned back, searching over her shoulder. But she didn't see him. Danielle stopped and pulled her horse to a stop, falling back along the rode as the caravan moved on.

"Trying to avoid her?" Therese caught him by surprise again, and he blinked up at her before turning back to watch Danielle's dwindling figure on the road. Her brown gelding dipped its head and pulled at the bit as she sat perfectly still, like a painting out of the Louvre.

"Yes," he murmured. He watched longingly as she slowly turned the horse's head and rode back along the road, disappearing back into Paris. He wasn't sure how long he looked back, twisted around in the saddle like that, but when he turned the sun had risen higher overheard, casting few shadows. Athena was fidgeting beneath his hand, and with a cluck of his tongue Erik turned her and began cantering beside the road. Back and forth, he ignored the stares of the few people that took any interest in him. The day had turned surprisingly warm, especially for January. When he drew her back to a walk, they were both breathing harder.

Athena suddenly snorted and bucked back, kicking the air with her front hooves. Erik expertly kept his saddle, and when she landed with a thud he patted her neck. "What is it, girl, huh?" he asked, more warmly and comfortably than he could manage with most people. Her ears flicked back, and she danced a few steps more until he finally looked up.

They had come to a stop beside a steel cage. In the thick shadows within, cast by the sun straight above the top of the cage, blinked two gleaming yellow eyes. A striped tail flicked between the bars. A man with a pipe on the wagon following it blew a smoke ring and smiled down at him.

"Like her?" he asked in thickly accented French. Erik's hand continued to soothe Athena as he stared fixedly at the tiger. Those two golden eyes never blinked, and after a minute the cat lifted itself onto its paws and came closer to the bars.

"What is her name?" he asked. Athena refused to obey Erik's desire to move closer to the cage, so he stretched out his hand.

"She's my Queen of Sheba," he said. "And I'm Paoli. I wouldn't do that," he suddenly added as Erik's hand brushed a steel bar. The warning in his voice seemed genuine, but when was the last time Erik had ever heeded a warning?

A low growl grew deep in Sheba's throat, but she slowly sniffed his hand with her cold nose. Her whiskers twitched, her tail lashed, and then she pressed the side of her face roughly against his palm. Erik smiled faintly as he scratched beneath her chin. From his seat, Paoli harrumphed and gave a shrug. "Well, not everyday that happens."

"Do you take her out of this cage everyday?"

"What?" Paoli seemed taken aback by such an abrupt question. He tipped his hat condescendingly. "Course not. Not unless there's a show or practice." His words cut off and he swallowed hard as Erik's steely gaze met his.

"Then I will come tonight and let her stretch her legs."

"Are you crazy? Who knows where we're stopping tonight. You'll get yourself mauled." But Erik's glare never wavered. Paoli eventually gave up and shrugged. "All right. It's your funeral." Erik could see the man's contempt, that _Let him get himself hurt and then I'll have a good laugh_ sort of expression. But he didn't care.

Nothing deserved to be trapped in a cage.

---

Erik had left Athena with Therese's horses and made his way to the edge of the encampment. Tents and wagons thinned as he stalked unseen through the night, slipping like a shadow through them all. The noise and light of campfires faded as the carnival's camp abruptly fell off. It was like reaching the sheer end of a cliff, a separate world all together. In place of the shifting, dancing firelight there was only that of the stars and the thin moon high above.

The cage sat silently in the darkness, threatening. Most people wouldn't give a cage a second glance. It was something to protect them from what was inside, right? Something rightfully trapped within to keep it away from society. Those steel bars were a defense for those on the outside, something of safety and security.

But what did the trapped ever do to the outside?

Erik was silent as a wraith as he crossed the frosted ground. He had taken his old porcelain mask that left half his face to the cool night air. Even in the weak light of the un-full moon it gleamed ethereally. As he drew closer, the tiger lifted her great striped head, staring at him with bright yellow eyes. They watched him warily, with a look Erik knew all too well. He calmly pulled the key he had taken from Paoli and fitted it into the big lock fixed to the bars. The man's worn leather whip hung on a peg nailed into the side of the cage, but even as Erik's eyes fell on it he shivered. It looked too much like a noose. The small cuts on his knuckles itched, and he scratched at them unconsciously. Sheba rose to her paws as he forced the key around and pulled the padlock off. The door swung open easily.

The two stared at each other warily for a moment. The tiger finally leapt out of the cage, crouching low to the ground, her muscles bunched tightly beneath her. Her striped tail lashed as she blinked up at Erik, flicking her gaze over his white mask. Unclenching his white-knuckled grip on the cage bars, Erik slowly reached up and pulled it off. It gleamed faintly as he set it aside and knelt down, holding his palm out. Sheba growled softly.

"I know," he said, swinging the cage door shut firmly. It resonated metallically, and both man and tiger seemed to ease with relief at the sound. Baring her teeth to lick her long whiskers, Sheba leaned forward to his hand a little more. Erik sat back on his heels. "Go on," he said, waving his hand at the expanse of moonlit night, "go if you want. This isn't the best place to escape to, though." A wry smile curled his lips. "Ironic, isn't it. I've been waiting to escape for so long, and now I want to go back. You haven't even thought of it, and now I'm setting that chance before you." The tiger blinked its golden eyes at him, and her cold nose brushed against his palm roughly.

His fingers deftly pinched her orange ear, and with a muted roar she fell over onto her back, batting at his hand. He pulled out a long, colorful scarf, practically a streamer, and let the tiger stretch her long-denied muscles in pure play. Yes, he seemed to be irony's new favorite toy.

---

The world was as black as coal. The billowing rustle of Erik's cloak made Danielle look up through the darkness. She was kneeling on the ground before him, the skirt of Aminta's dress spread out around her and a strangely apprehensive look in her eyes. "Erik," she said, and her voice shook with what sounded close to fear. She dropped the wilted rose she held from her hand, and it shed its petals as it hit the ground.

A fierce, merciless rictus split his face instead of the pity and concern he should have felt. Darkness nipped at his heels as he swept forward. Danielle cried out as his fingers twisted into her flesh and hauled her to her feet. His other hand locked around her slim throat, so easily encircling it.

"One last kiss, Danielle?" The look in her eyes finally descended into unbridled horror. It was the cruelest laugh he had ever uttered that he gave wind to then. His lips pushed against hers in a kiss so savage and brutal she sobbed against his mouth. The one tear she shed was ruby red as it slid down the blade he plunged into her back…

Erik started awake with a cry, struggling against the sheets. He tore at them savagely until they were a crumpled mess at the end of his pallet. Cold sweat dotted his brow as he panted, looking around to try and get his bearings. The night outside his tent was cool and quiet, lights flickering over the fabric from the dying campfires and a few crickets chirping as winter fled early. So calm compared to how he felt.

He leaned back on his elbow as his surrounding settled in. Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

But it had felt so _real_. Erik scrubbed his hand across his mouth, trying to forget the feel of that cruel kiss. How could his dreams twist something so pristine and beautiful like that? He longed every moment to hold her back in his arms. He would put the Punjab lasso around his own neck before he would let her come to harm again.

_Again…_Oh, God, he had already done it, hadn't he? She had stayed his hand on the noose, and taken his mask to draw away the police, and how had he repaid her? With a guttural moan, Erik grabbed his mask and stood.

The feel of the porcelain on his cheek was unexpectedly cool and soothing, calming the feverish heat there. Perhaps it was because Danielle didn't care about the mask. She hadn't said a word when she had taken if off in the cellars. She was all that mattered. He wondered how she was, if her arm pained her. Her grip had certainly been strong when she had grabbed his hand in her room. It had been two weeks since he had seen her for the last time. When he played his violin for the carnival, he would shut his eyes and see her as she had been: the wind teasing her thick hair as her horse danced beneath her, glancing around with her darkly intent eyes. How many times, even in two weeks, he had dreamt of her turning to look over her shoulder and spying him in the shadows of the wagon.

Vaguely, he became aware of the crackle of a fire behind him. Claude, Therese's husband, sat on a crate beside it, warming his hands idly. "Rough night?"

Erik restrained the urge to jump back into the shadows. His hand unconsciously checked that his mask was still on. Claude reached behind him and pulled out a beat-up tin cup. "Coffee? You look like you could use it."

Erik silently accepted it, just holding it to warm his hands. "Rough doesn't quite cover it," he muttered. The coffee was bitter and strong, too strong for his tastes.

_Danielle and he drinking hot chocolate in the seats of Box Five, talking of the different places they had been, places they would go. She promising him with a smile to get a box of white chocolates to share with him…_

He downed the rest of the coffee resignedly and sat down across the fire from Claude. "So it wasn't just a mouse in you sheets," he commented wryly. His smile was congenial as he refilled Erik's cup. "Was it that?" He nodded at Erik's chest and handed over the cup.

Erik frowned and looked down at his chest. His shirt had fallen open in his struggle against the sheets, revealing a little gold ring on a chain about his neck. It was just a plain gold band that gleamed in the firelight as he lifted it up to look at it. He wasn't sure why he had bought it. The thing had caught his eye as he left the city he had so long hid within. "What do you mean?" he asked, frowning at it as he tried to reason out why exactly he had bought it.

"The ring. Was it for that girl that came after you?" Erik's fingers curled over the ring. So, Therese had told her husband about Danielle. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it made Erik fell uncomfortably exposed. Claude and Therese didn't even know his real name; he was simply Don Juan. Yet somehow, their knowing about Danielle put them much closer than he wanted.

But was that why he had bought it?

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's not the ring. I'll be leaving tomorrow for Luxembourg, and it's been keeping me up. I just haven't been sleeping well lately." Claude eyed him doubtfully, but Erik ignored him. He held the ring absentmindedly and stared off into the fire, wondering if Danielle was plagued with such nightmares.

Miles away, not as far as he would have thought, Danielle sat curled up in the bay window of her aunt's house in the north of France. Wispy clouds scudded across the waning moon, throwing mottled, diaphanous shadows over the land. She traced the gold embossing on the thick leather folder idly, thinking of the nights they had spent composing it. The black ribbon that had been tied around the box was looped through her fingers, gleaming over her pale skin like a captured wave of distant, dark waters.

Her eyes strayed to the tattered book near her bag as she scratched idly at the scar on her arm. _Northern Antiquities _shouldn't have been that astounding, except that she had found it left in the dust behind the moving caravan of the fair.

_I don't understand, Erik._ She thought to herself. _Why did you leave me everything to follow you if you didn't tell me where to go? If you didn't want me to come? _

A few more miles away, unknown to either of them, Francois Nereaux opened the door to the small inn room he had rented for the night, oblivious to the night gathering around him.


	10. The Play Begun

**Author's Notes: **So, not as late as I feared. It doesn't flow perfectly, but this is just pretty much a building chapter. I haven't written the next one yet, so I'm not sure how long it will take me, but I'll aim for next weekend. So, hang in there and I'll put everything back together!

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Chapter 10 – The Play Begun

Erik sighed as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders. The days were surely getting warmer, but he knew that as he traveled farther northeast winter would reign a little longer. The fair waited a night's ride away, already waiting to move on into Belgium. He had spent the better part of a week in Luxembourg, instructing the handful of performances of _Don Juan Triumphant _at the capitol's opera house. It wasn't much compared to his Paris Grand Opera, but it was still a house of music.

He was loathing the return to the fair, though. Therese and Claude had been unbelievably kind to him, more than he had thought still existed for him in the world. They treated him like an equal, like the mask he wore wasn't separating them anymore than a normal person's independence would. But he couldn't stand passing Mariana. The sight of her, the ring of her bangles, the mere mention of her name, sent a shiver of tension through him.

The woman was a Gypsy.

She was the only one at the fair, her and a trio of men that trailed her like vicious hounds on a leash tied to her wrist. She acted as a treasurer, her men guards over the cash box, and every once in a while danced to keep the men at the fair entertained. Her dark eyes were cunning, her red lips always pursed in a controlled, brooding smile. Whenever she looked at him, he could see the wheels turning ominously in her mind.

It made him want to throw himself against a cage door, forcing it open before it could lock him inside.

His hand brushed the black mask he wore in frustration, turning from future problems to more recent ones. He had told the girl not to. Apparently his unease and lack of trust towards most of humanity was not unsoundly based. The chorus girl he had chosen to sing Aminta's part was nothing compared to Danielle. The part was nothing unless it was played by her, now. But the girl had been able to sing, and she was quite pretty. At the first three performances he had stayed her hand in the end, stopped her from taking off the mask. But last night…He hadn't been fast enough. The girl's curiosity had overcome her, the need to see the face that sang to her so alluringly…

But he hadn't been singing to her. Erik had sung for Danielle, to Danielle, and oh, how he wished, with her. That was why Giselle had managed to take it off. The poor girl had been so frightened she hadn't even cried out, only backed away until she fell into the arms of her friend. Erik had been gone before either girl had been able to look back up.

That one stupid girl could have ruined everything for Erik that early morning as he stalked down the road with growing frustration. The old hatred that he had tamped down and put out was beginning to smolder, and it would have burst into indelible flame if he hadn't looked up and seen _her_.

She stood on the steps of the opera house, looking up at it thoughtfully, studying it in comparison to the Paris Grande the same way he had. He could even see Danielle pick out the same differences, the masonry, the style, the difference in the grand doors and the façade. She turned her head to glance down the street where Erik stood frozen, drinking her in with his eyes.

A part of him had feared that he would never see her again, never have a chance to clutch her to him, hold her close where she belonged, where he could feel her sweet gentle breath on his cheek, the feel of her silky hair against his palm…He longed for it so deeply that he could practically see her stretching out her slender hand as if she was only waiting for him to come. He took a step forward, her name gathering itself sweetly on his tongue…

And that was when he saw the flash of blue behind her. Standing disarmingly at an intersection was a boy with a shock of blonde hair that would have fit in anywhere in Europe if it hadn't been for the blue uniform he wore. He looked inconspicuously around the street, but Erik could see the way he scrutinized Danielle and her surroundings. The woman herself seemed vaguely conscious of him, if not completely aware, her back tensing when his gaze fell on her. It took Erik a long moment to feel himself falling, realize that the boy was the same from the cellars. His breath caught in a venomous hiss as he drew back into the shadows.

He had followed her.

Any hope Erik had had of catching her up in his arms vanished like smoke on the wind. He couldn't be caught, not when she had risked her life to let him escape, and he wasn't willing to jeopardize her. He held his breath as Danielle cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder, a momentary weariness crossing her face, passing over the boy. She watched him for a minute, the way he casually leaned on the brick wall with his back turned to her, trying to think of where she might have seen him before.

When she turned back, Erik was gone.

_What are you looking for?_ She thought to herself. She didn't know why she felt vaguely disappointed as she looked over the shadows of Luxembourg. Her hand paused as she raised it to the carved doors, taking one last fleeting look over the city. Her knock when unheard, so she opened the door and let herself in. Her hands clasped her suitcase in front of her as she tilted her head back to take in the theater, so unused to any but her own. The house was filled with shouts and instructions, singing and rehearsing, contrasting painfully with the calm morning breaking outside.

From the stage, someone shouted at her without missing a beat. "What do you want? The performance doesn't start until seven." The familiar roar of the rehearsal died down as everyone turned to look at the stranger standing in the doorway.

"Forgive me, monsieur," she said, walking forward down the carpeted aisle. "I was wondering if I might join the production for tonight." She hefted her suitcase behind her. Someone sneered.

"We don't take in traveling bards here." The flyman looked down his nose at her rather insultingly, but another man, she guessed he was the director, suddenly shushed him.

"Ignore him, mademoiselle. We are rather busy and don't have time to take on new artists at the moment. So unless you happen to know the score for this _Don Juan Triumphant,_ I'm afraid we don't have anything for you to do here." With a suitably apologetic smile, he turned back to the stage.

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur." Everyone fell silent again as the director impatiently looked back at her. "I am actually familiar with the entire score. Perhaps I could be of assistance to you after all?" She allowed a fraction of the elated smile she was feeling slip onto her face. She had gone in the right direction! Maybe whatever that feeling of disappointment had been was just a figment of her imagination. She swung her bag and walked briskly down the aisle, barely able to suppress her expectation. "Who is playing Don Juan and Aminta?"

The director assessed her with a new eye, sizing her up and down. "Pierre is our Don Juan," he said, jerking his thumb at a middle aged man done up in Spanish garb with a mask in his hand. Pierre smiled at her briefly.

Danielle's hopes vanished like a ball of paper thrown into the fire. One brief, blazing moment of hope, and then all that was left was falling ash. Her smile fell.

The director didn't seem to notice as he went on. "Aminta is actually our problem. Our leading diva retired a few weeks ago, and we have yet to find a new one. And now the chorus girl that sang it before claims she can't do it again. It's really more than I ever signed up for in this job!" He trailed off muttering to himself in French. Pierre glanced back to Danielle, who was still standing rather stiffly in the middle of the aisle.

"Mademoiselle?" Danielle blinked and looked back up at him. _You're still in the right direction, _she said to herself. That was something Right?

"Monsieur," she called, finally reaching the stage. "Might I sing Aminta's part for tonight?" The director looked at his nerve's end with trying to pull this opera together.

"You see," he said, sighing wearily, "the first few performances, Don Juan took charge of the whole thing. Whipped it together in two days, he did. I think he was helping Giselle with her lines during the actual performance." He huffed a deep breath and shook his head before waving her up to the stage. "Well, then, let's hear you sing. I can't just take in anyone off the street on their word." Danielle dropped her bags in a seat and pulled off her coat.

"From where, monsieur?" He sighed and waved to the maestro. The mousy little man scurried through his papers for a moment before looking up at her.

"The aria, mademoiselle, in the third scene of the first act?" She nodded and took her place on the stage, shutting her eyes. She took a few deep breaths.

_Tangled in the winding sheets, such night has set my soul aflame._

_He whispered in my ear such words I could not say my name._

_Yet he tore my heart from within my breast_

_And laced it with such tender words that cherished each caress._

_I can no longer claim my soul my own, he haunts me so._

With her eyes shut, she could almost pretend that she was back in Paris on that night Erik had first given her the whole score. The folder it had been in had carried such a magnificent weight when he had laid it in her hands, as if the paper itself carried the hardships of its first performance. When she opened her eyes, everyone was staring at her. The director reached out a hand and shook hers.

"Pendeaut. David Pendeaut." Danielle smiled.

She had her part. She had her trail.

Pierre came and shook her hand in turn, smiling gently. Danielle turned to go down into the orchestral pit and speak with the maestro when a girl suddenly appeared before her. She was delicately built, rich strawberry blonde curls hanging around her shoulders, but her pretty green eyes were wide as if she were deathly afraid of something. She rang her hands anxiously as she stared at Danielle.

"That's how he sang," she said softly, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear. Danielle frowned at her in confusion. "That's how Don Juan sang. That's how he wanted me to sing."

"Giselle?" Danielle asked gently, realizing who the girl must be. The girl stared past her, not really seeing Danielle standing before her.

"I don't see how. How could he sing of such love, such emotion, when he was such a—"

Danielle's hands suddenly clutched the girl's shoulders, and Giselle's gaze snapped back to reality. She yelped as the woman's fingers dug into her skin with unrealized emotion, and Danielle forcefully, almost fiercely, turned the girl to face her. "What did you do?" she demanded in a cold voice. Giselle looked up at her with wide, fearful eyes.

"I…I had to know. I just had to see…"

"And you did," Danielle said in a horrified whisper. Giselle had taken off Erik's mask. She wasn't aware of how hard she was holding the girl as a cold fear washed over her. "Who saw him? Where is he?"

"I don't know," the girl stammered, whimpering against Danielle's grip. "It was dark, and only I saw him. It was after the curtain had dropped. Even Lisa didn't see him, and when we both looked up…He was just gone."

Danielle finally let go of Giselle. He was gone. He had escaped. That was a good thing, wasn't it? _But that means that he escaped me, too. _

"You've seen him, haven't you?" the girl's unabashed voice said. "He's horrible, isn't he? He looks like a—"

"Don't," Danielle cut in, her voice stronger than she expected. Giselle's words dropped off as Danielle raised a hand. "Don't ever speak of what you don't know, girl." Pendeaut appeared at her elbow then, shooing Giselle away. It took Danielle a long minute until she could turn and face him.

The rehearsal ran on smoothly, Danielle helping to orchestrate the whole performance from heart. In between songs, she learned that the opera had been given to Pendeaut by a strange man that arrived with a traveling fair that had left just yesterday night. He never took his mask off throughout the entire rehearsal or performance, but he sang with such a voice that no one cared. Giselle had never had such a role before, and everyone said she had only gotten through it because Don Juan was so captivating.

As night began to fall, Pendeaut approached Danielle again. She was standing in the orchestral pit with Toulin, the maestro, giving him pointers on the score. The director waited a moment and then cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle," he said, "we need a costume for you. I'm afraid that it'll be a tight squeeze if you try to fit in Giselle's dress; she's a tiny little thing. If you wouldn't mind being measured."

Danielle waved it off as she underlined a handful of measures and highlighted the crescendo beneath them. "I have a dress, M Pendeaut. It's in the bottom of my suitcase; I can have it on in ten minutes." When she glanced up, he looked like he might have kissed her in relief.

"Wonderful, mademoiselle."

"There is one other thing, though, monsieur," she said, finally stepping back from the score. "I will need a place to stay tonight."

"Oh, of course, mademoiselle. We have people come in for one or two nights more often than you think. You will stay in the theater tonight, and be paid what any leading diva would for one performance." Danielle smiled and bowed her head.

"Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup." And she went to go and change.

It felt strange singing with anyone but Erik as Don Juan, but at the end of the performance, the applause was uproarious. When Pierre dragged her out for their curtain call, the entire house stood. It all felt strangely distant to Danielle, though, as if she were watching it from afar. She hadn't come here looking for applause. Without Erik there, without feeling his proud gaze on her from high in the theater like it had been back in Paris, it all felt so…meaningless. There wasn't even a familiar Box Five to look to. Her eyes fixed on the man's standing in the middle of the theater, drawn by some fluke of fate, watching her with an avid light in his eyes beneath his blond hair. He smiled at her shyly when she stared at him, nodding his head as if acknowledging something. Where had she seen him before?

Everything slowly calmed down as the cast fell backstage to greet the finery of Luxembourg. Danielle slipped back out of her dressing room discreetly, winding her way through the people back to the theater. The house was practically deserted as she padded quietly across the stage and dropped into the orchestral pit. She carefully set _Fenris' Cry _on the top of the piano. As she sat, arranging the long skirts of her dressing gown, she turned to the first page of the embossed gold folder. Her hand brushed the card, still tucked into the front pocket, before she gently laid her hands on the ivory keys.

It started with a mournful chord that echoed like a wolf's howl through the house. The people scattered through the lobby and backstage fell quiet and perked their ears. Danielle lost herself in the music. With her fingers on the piano keys, she could almost pretend that Erik was there behind her, just out of sight. His phantom hand hovered over her shoulder in her mind, guiding her own. The music went on and on, and the young woman failed to notice the people slipping back into the theater, standing silently in the aisles. It was almost as if they were together, her wish for it to be real a tangible note that no key could play. She turned to the last page. The final line was so solemn, a sorrowful howl to the empty skies above that faded into the thick silence of the night itself. It was a call, a sound that echoed from her very soul.

Danielle took a tremulous breath as the music faded. She had never heard the last line. She and Erik had been about to write it when Raoul and Christine stumbled upon them. He had finished it himself.

It was a long moment before she could gather up the pages and shut the folder. She tucked it carefully under her arm before she stood and straightened her skirt. The whole theater waited with bated breath, most of the audience back in the aisles or dropped into the seats. Danielle started when she saw them all. The light tap on her shoulder made her turn her head. Pierre leaned back onto the stage where most of the cast had gathered as well. "Mademoiselle," he said respectfully, "that was…magnifique. Why was it not played the first night we gave this opera?"

They were meant to be together, she realized at that moment. She and Erik had written the epilogue to _Don Juan Triumphant. _Danielle turned and looked over the audience. The silence was greater than the loudest applause had ever been.

She was still wondering at this later that night as she sat by the candle in her dressing room. Without even realizing it, before she had ever heard _Don Juan_, she had started writing its ending. _Don Juan Triumphant _was a tale that started out as savage lust, a desire that every creature harbors deep within itself and hides in the darkness of midnight and bedrooms. But the story slowly dissolved—or did it culminate?—into a longing for something more, something deeper than the lusts of the flesh. A tale of redemption. _Fenris' Cry _was just the final, passionate cry to the one that could soothe that longing, to the one that could soothe such a tormented and incomplete soul…

Danielle's hand had crept to her breast unnoticed as she stared blindly at the dancing flame. Was it his soul that was incomplete? Or was it hers?

_I knew it would be long until I saw his face again. _She had known it, in the palace of illusions. She had feared that she would never see his face again. She could barely remember after that. A frantic race, and then he had been beside her, but she only recalled the feel of his arms around her, his face turned up to hers as she pushed herself up to turn and face…

"Oh my God," she whispered, her eyes grown wide in the dark. Her hand moved from her breast to encircle her arm as she leapt up from the dresser's bench. The _gendarme. _Francois Nereaux. He had followed her. He was trying to find Erik. She could only imagine what his mind had managed to concoct. A young woman running through the cellars and a monster of a man, a murderer, catching her in his arms. The guard probably thought she was deranged.

Or maybe he thought that Erik had seduced her, bewitched her into following his voice no matter where it led.

She had her bag packed in moments. Danielle snatched the plain white envelope with her pay off the desk and shoved it into the shoulder bag, pausing to place the embossed folder beside it more carefully. The cool air outside smacked her awake pitilessly, and she was grateful for it. She wasn't quite sure where to go, but a desperate need to get away from Luxembourg, from the _gendarme_, drove her steps onward towards the train station.

Athena whickered as Erik coaxed her to a stop, snorting in the cool night air. Her black mane and tail gleamed red and orange in the firelight of campfires as he swung out of the saddle and began to walk her into the fair.

Wind gusted through the camp, catching him and the mare, fluttering through dancing flames and brightly colored tents. He sighed into it, wondering if it would carry such strength all the way to the city behind him. He would go to Sheba's cage and let her out; the tiger would be upset at him for being gone nearly a week. Glancing up, Erik caught sight of Therese, walking around a campfire to bat Claude playfully with her apron. The strongman looked up, smiling in the firelight, and caught the end of the apron to pull her into his lap, planting a wet kiss on her brow. Their son, sitting and throwing stones into the fire, pulled a face. Erik nearly laughed.

"Reminiscing about past loves, Don Juan?" The silky, poisonous voice caught him off guard, and Erik's entire body tensed. Athena whickered nervously and yanked her head up, hitting his hand as he attempted to soothe her. Mariana sat on a crate, her ankles crossed with a gold anklet latched around one. Her eyes gleamed like coals in the dark, fixed on him portentously.

She rose with fluid grace, like a viper uncoiling, if it could move with such sumptuousness. Her dark silks swayed around her as she drew near, and Athena laid her ears back against her skull. Erik felt his blood begin to freeze as she slid around him. "Past lives?" she offered. Her olive-skinned hand brushed his cheek fleetingly, but it left a terrible lasting sting, like a nettle's touch. He jerked away from it, and Mariana froze, poised like a cobra. The cold wheels behind her eyes were turning.

"Go back to counting your coins," he said, as coldly as he could manage, but the heat that seeped into it only made it sound more enraged. Closer to how he felt. Vicious, biting insults crawled into his mind, but he kept a reign on them. Avoiding her feral eyes, Erik pushed roughly past her and walked off towards the tiger's cage.

He could feel that merciless, emotionless gaze on his back as he walked away, and it gave him an awful sense of having felt it before.


	11. The Hounds Behind

**Author's Notes: **Moving kind of quickly because I can't CAN'T write or stand filler fluff. Seriously, on a paper, I think of I wrote fluff my body would just involuntarily chop off my hand. shrugs Maybe I'm allergic or something. But this chapter is kind of an afterthough which I'm really digging. Tell me what you think of Mariana. READ AND REVIEW, PLEASE!

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Chapter 11 – The Hounds Behind 

Erik pushed back the fabric of his tent and unbuttoned his heavy red jacket. No matter how much he disliked thinking of the end of that masquerade twenty years ago, his Red Death costume was quite spectacular. The skull mask, if he bothered to paint his eyes, was so captivating that people often forgot to ask about his real death's head.

He dropped the coat on top of the saddlebag still holding the long, folded up train. Just as he was about to remove the mask, the wind passed through the tent, stirred his hair and carried the shaky breath of the intruder to his ears.

Erik turned, a growl curling his lips, and stopped when he saw Claude and Therese's son Matthieu standing frozen with his hand outstretched. "What do you think you're doing in here?" he asked coolly. The boy blushed fiercely and snatched his hand back to run it through his hair. Matthieu couldn't be much older than thirteen, but he already had the shadow of his father's muscular build. His eyes darted around the small tent for an excuse as he stammered.

"Nothing, Don Juan," he said. Something in the way he averted his eyes suddenly set Erik's nerves on edge. He stepped dangerously close to the boy, looming over him.

"What were you planning to do, boy?" he growled. Too many times there had been a hand reaching through the dark to snatch at his mask. Matthieu's eyes went wide, and he swallowed loudly, but he stood unexpectedly straight as he stared at him.

"I was going to prove them wrong." He still stammered in spite of his powerful stance. "Everyone thinks that no one can touch Red Death and live to tell about it."

Erik started and suddenly barked a laugh. He turned away and moved to pick up his bow and rosin. "Is that all? Well let them believe that. Good thing you didn't touch me after all. Who was the genius to figure this out?"

"Well, ever since Sheba died, people have been wondering—" Matthieu's words faltered as he realized the violin bow had stopped on the amber square of rosin, the horsehairs gleaming faintly. Erik's knuckles turned white as his fingers fell from the proper position to grip the wood hard.

"What?" He could hear Matthieu swallow.

"The tiger, monsieur. She died while you were away. Papa said that she just missed her homeland too much, and after you showed her that bit of kindness she saw fit to…let go. Paoli's more upset than any of us thought. He lets the lions out every night now." The boy paused. "Don Juan?"

"You should go, Matthieu," he said softly without turning around. The tent flap swung quietly, and somewhere off an owl hooted before Erik unlocked his hand from the bow. It fell onto the sheets with a muffled thud that he barely heard as he flexed his fingers unconsciously.

Why again? Why? Was he allowed to have nothing?

It was too much, everything was catching up with him. Danielle was just a few miles behind him. He had seen her again, all the way here in Germany. What if the _gendarme_ was still following her? And what if the people in the fair really thought he was some kind of danger? He felt the steel door of a cage slowly swinging shut before him.

He dropped the amber rosin and put his hands to his head, gritting his teeth. He needed a minute. Just a minute. A pause to breathe. Anything. He felt like he hadn't been able to breathe since he had left Paris, as if he were still trying to catch it from his flight. He was afraid to sleep, if more nightmares would come to hound him. He hadn't felt this anxious since he had fretted over Christine, over how to keep her when he knew de Chagny had already won.

_The game's over, _he growled to himself, shaking his head. _You don't have to fight anymore. It's not a game. _

Erik, very slowly, unclenched his hands from his skull and bent one knee. He knelt down as he picked up the bow from where it had fallen, concentrating on breathing. It felt so hard, so…unnatural.

The first mournful notes of Sheba's requiem rose softly from the strings. People outside, sitting happily around their fires or in each other's arms, paused as it went on, raising their heads to the sound. The volume never varied, never grew or faded, but yet they could hear, hear it become more heartfelt and laden with emotion. They were trapped in a trance, swept up in the power of that sorrowful song, until it oh so subtly shifted. They blinked and looked around, the music fading from their ears, before falling back to their lives, pretending nothing had happened. The sound of the violin disappeared as if a shroud had been pulled over the strings.

_She looked tired, _he thought to himself. He was still gasping for air, and she was still exhausted. The music beneath his bow became a soft lullaby that he did not control. Those outside couldn't hear it because they weren't meant to. Where it came from was a mystery to him; he couldn't remember ever having one sung to him in his childhood. But what came from the violin could be called nothing else.

_In my dark my heart hears music._ _In her blood there's song. _Erik didn't realize as he played, but his breathing settled in time to the music, in time to the woman's pulling a horse out of a stable to ride off into the night. There is something absolute and magic about falling asleep to song. Children insist upon it, refusing to be silent and rest unless lulled into it by a parent's softly sung encouragement. When they grow up they shun it, leave it behind in childhood where they figure it belongs, an immature quirk they must outgrow. But deep inside, we all still long to fall into dreams on the wings of an Angel of Music…

The soft sound of the tent door swinging barely penetrated his song. Erik sighed, letting the notes carry on, until he suddenly heard the quiver of bells and gold jewelry behind him. The music died so abruptly that the air seemed to echo it a moment more, as if it wished that it hadn't ended. Slowly, this time, Erik turned, lowering his violin.

The Gypsy woman was standing there, her arms overflowing with white lilies. She blinked at him sadly, the fierce light in her eyes at unsettling odds with her somber expression. She hoisted the flowers in his direction.

"I'm so sorry to hear of your loss, Don Juan," she consoled. The fragrance of the lilies seeped into the air, and she looked down at them. "I know how close you were to the tiger." Unable to look away from her, Erik could not suppress the terrible sense of foreboding welling up in his chest.

"She was old," he said stiffly. Mariana smiled coyly as she nodded.

"Yes, well…we all must meet our fate." Her eyes were cruelly sweet as she looked up at him, and still, Erik could not get rid of the awful feeling that he had hated those eyes before.

"What do you want, Gypsy?" Mariana took a few steps forward, gliding over his sheets. She stood so close, Erik could smell the herbs and spices on her, the harsh smell of wicked precision. He tensed, gripping the bow like a weapon as she held up the lilies.

"Tell me, Don Juan," she cooed seductively. "Can you make my lilies sing?"

Erik froze, his eyes behind the mask suddenly wide with remembered fear. "No," he gasped, stepping back involuntarily and raising the bow in defense. "You can't be…"

Mariana's smile grew, and for the first time Erik knew what fear his own wicked smile had instilled in so many unfortunate, pathetic souls. The Gypsy slunk forward again, dangerously closing the space between them.

"Well, Devil's child? Can you make them sing?" She pushed the flowers against his chest, her smile finally descending into a cruel sneer.

"How did you...?" Erik stammered, his mind still trying to conceive how this was happening. He remembered, now, remembered where he had first felt that calculating, merciless gaze on him.

He had been in the Gypsy cage, late at night, clutching his stinging side. He barely had a handful of hay to rest his head on, so he leaned against the hard bars, hanging his head behind the burlap mask as he bit his lip.

"Oh, don't pout, little corpse," her voice cooed, a sound he had quickly learned to despise and fear equally. Mariana was leaning against the bars opposite him. On the outside, of course. One olive hand was curled around the metal, the other holding Javert's whip by her side. She was his captor's much younger sister, brought along so that her cold, greedy cunning could profit him best. And she was wickedly fascinated with Erik. Mariana was a child with a glass lens, and he was the unfortunate ant she was oh so slowly enjoying killing.

Erik's eyes snapped open and he glared at her, hoping that the ashamed tears stinging his eyes were hidden by the mask. She struck out her lip in mock commiseration.

"Poor Devil's child, afraid to speak to a girl."

"I am not afraid," he snapped angrily before he could stop himself. Mariana's smile darkened.

"Then speak some more."

Erik fell sullenly silent. He knew that if he spoke at all, she would extract the worst insult from his words and take the leather to his side. She liked to twist his words and fling them back in his face. Of course, if he didn't say anything, she'd probably hit him anyway.

As he remained stubbornly silent, huddle up in the corner of the filthy cage, Mariana scowled. She didn't look pretty when she twisted her face up like that, and she hated not looking pretty, so she schooled her features to cast a cool gaze on the whip. Her hand raised it up and moved back and forth so that the leather strips whispered over the bars. Erik always imagined that the wind in Hell would sound something like that.

Watching her nervously, he finally saw the small white flower tucked into her dark hair. He studied it for a moment, wondering how such a beautiful little thing could stand to be plucked and placed beside such a vile scalp. Perhaps Mariana didn't look horrible, nothing like he did, but so close, even a little flower must feel the wickedness inside her skull.

He pitied the little thing. He shifted against the bars, sullenly scorning the girl for plucking it from its life so it could grace her hair in its dying hours. He licked his lips and pitched his voice to the petals, whispering his voice into her ear.

_Cat of Nine Tails shook her head._

_Cat of Nine Tails strike you dead._

_Raised her head up to the sky,_

_Watch her fall and then you'll cry._

Erik loved the expression of perplexed wonder that came over her face, reveled in the fact that he still had one thing she could never control. A small, triumphant smile crossed his face behind the mask. But as he watched her, that fierce, horrid light of machinations and calculations coming to the Gypsy's eyes, it vanished from his lips like it never had been. The little voice of reason that he liked less and less was whispering in his mind. _Bad idea, that was a bad idea…_

That same light hadn't changed in the grown woman. And that same little voice was back. _Coming here was a bad idea…_

"You think that you are hard to place, Don Juan?" she asked, looking at the mask. "Who else would hide behind a mask for so long? Have you been wearing it all your life, Devil's child?" Her hand reached up to snatch it away, and Erik finally came back to himself. He shoved her away as hard as he could, pushing her to the edge of the tent.

"Get out," he growled. Mariana's smile grew worse. How could he have forgotten that smile? She caught herself against the fabric, leaning back.

"That face is mine, Don Juan. It should have been mine." He frowned at her in confusion, stepping back again. "Javert didn't know how to use you. But I do. I know just how to get you to bare your face, use your voice. They would toss gold at your feet if you really sang, but you degrade yourself and only ply at those awful strings. You belong back in that empty cage." A small, condescending laugh punctuated her words, and Erik went rigid again.

"You…" He shook his head disbelievingly. "You killed Sheba…" Mariana bared her teeth in a rictus. A cobra's fangs couldn't have been more dangerous that that smile.

This woman was more a monster than he was. His foot suddenly backed against a coil of rope that he hadn't used in pitching the tent. "Get out," he growled again, this time a tone of terrible power and anger entering his voice. Mariana blinked a moment. Oh no, she wasn't used to the Devil's child as a grown man. She didn't know what the opera managers had been through. He would give her one more moment…

"You think you frighten me, Devil's child? You _belong_ to me." She started laughing, and Erik finally snapped. As fast as lightning, he had bent down and picked up the rope, thrown it about her before she could blink. The Gypsy woman gasped as he was suddenly beside her, tightening the cord around her middle and lashing her arms behind her back. She stared up at him, finally a hint of paleness coming to her face at his ferocity. Erik bound her with cold precision, watching his hands deftly knot the rope. His face was grimly set as Mariana watched him over her shoulder.

"Don Juan," she said, a faintness softening her voice. She looked up at him as he stepped back, his chest heaving as he panted. He felt like an animal lashing out in self defense. Why were people always climbing out of his past to haunt him now, when he was only trying to escape it? Mariana's voice was soft, but her eyes hadn't changed, and Erik felt a sinking feeling as he panted. "Don Juan, you know that you can do better. That mask is a lie. You've been hiding behind it all your life. This wouldn't be a one sided deal." She stared up at him through hooded lashes, now. "If you give me what I want…" Erik's grip loosened on the rope as he stared at her in numb shock. Mariana turned to him, ignoring her arms now tied securely behind her back.

Erik couldn't move. She came closer, pressing her body against his. "Why deny it?" she asked, her voice soft and seductive. Erik shivered. "No woman has ever wanted you. How long have the pleasures everyone else enjoys eluded you? I could give that to you. I could make you happy."

He shut his eyes and put his hands on her shoulders to shove her away again. For the one moment he was in contact with her skin, it made him wish beyond anything else that it was Danielle. He paused, his gut twisting anxiously, and he felt Mariana lean into him. Then in disgust he pushed her away.

"You know nothing of me," he said. Mariana had dropped the façade and was glaring at him, now, full of vicious anger. Erik walked up to her and gruffly turned her around, grabbing her dress at the small of her back and pushing her outside. No one saw as he took her to the edge of the camp. Sheba's cage still sat in the dark, nearby the lions' cages. He practically ripped the opened lock off.

"How dare you," Mariana growled as he slammed the bars shut on her. Erik glared at her from behind his mask.

"Now," he said coldly, "you can see it from my side of the bars." He could feel the heat of her gaze on his back as he strode away.

---

Mariana glowered in the noonday sun, rubbing her wrists irately. She had been in that cage all night, her arms and shoulders cramping from their unnatural position lashed behind her back. So, Don Juan thought he could outdo her? That man was going to regret ever running away from his cage in the first place.

Alfonse, the oldest and most loyal of her three guards, was walking close to her, almost protectively. He seemed to be ignoring the bruise growing on his cheek from her opened palm. Mariana strode with angry, long strides, briskly and efficiently searching through the camp.

Don Juan's tent was gone. His horse was gone. So Mariana would go to the one person who might know where he was.

The main tent of the carnival loomed up, the inside cool and shady compared to the glaring sunlight. Mariana didn't pause as she skirted the edges, searching for the strongman display. It was near the back, a crowd of people goggling stupidly at the impressive feats of strength. But the Gypsy wasn't interested in their exhibits. Her eyes found the kindly looking wife by the edge of the tent, watching her husband as she stitched a rip in some piece of clothing. A cruel, unadulterated rictus curled her lips back in anticipation.

"Alfonse," she said over her shoulder, "don't do anything here. If necessary, we'll take Mme Therese back to my tent and see what she's willing to—" The Gypsy stopped short as she caught sight of the hooded figure standing near the woman. She instinctively drew back, pushing Alfonse behind her to hide in the shadow of a stack of crates, filled with assorted costumes and props.

"Lost your way, dearie?" she heard Therese ask the girl as she knotted off the thread. "Or are you looking for something in particular?" Mariana peeked through a gap in the crates. Therese smiled warmly at the woman in the hood, who bowed her head respectfully.

"Pardonnez-moi, madame, but I can't seem to find who I'm looking for. Where is Don Juan?" Mariana caught her breath.

Therese set down her sewing. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but he's not here. He left late last night and rode off." She turned away as if expecting that to be enough, but the hooded woman did not leave. With her face hidden, Mariana thought she might be some charlatan, looking for an actual Don Juan. Oh, how the Gypsy would have loved to see the sight when the girl really saw him. But something was off. Mariana frowned as the girl hung her head, strands of sandy hair falling past the line of her jaw. She lifted a slender hand and pushed the hood back.

"How I hear of his music," she murmured, watching Therese's back. "Such music. Songs that haunt you, bring a tear to your eye. Music that stays in your mind, whispering in your ear while you dream so that you wake thinking he's been playing all night. It's so compelling, so mournful, that you have to get out of bed to see if it's still there, only to find him sitting staring into the embers of the fire. Searching for something. Still searching, all the while behind his mask."

The woman's voice had fallen, soft, as if she were really talking to herself. Mariana watched her carefully, a cruel light coming to her dark eyes. Therese turned around. Danielle had lowered her hood and was staring as if searching for something herself. The wife smiled sadly and nodded to her. "So you finally caught up." She recognized her, now, the young woman who had ridden up to the caravan on that crisp January morn, searching for Don Juan. She looked older now in a way Therese couldn't exactly place. But the look in her eyes couldn't be called anything other than love. Danielle blinked, her eyes suddenly glistening, and swallowed.

"Please, madame," she pleaded quietly, "where has he gone?" Therese sighed and shook her head.

"I honestly don't know, dearie. If I did, I would tell you. I only know that he has gone east, very far east, this time."

Mariana smiled, and turned her back to lean against the crates. Alfonse watched as her mind worked, her lips curling back over her teeth like a cobra's grin. She flicked her dark eyes over to him.

"Go and get our things packed," she said carefully. She was staring off at nothing, planning as she heard the girl speaking softly with Therese. Alfonse left.

So, Don Juan wasn't alone after all. Had her Devil's child finally found an Angel to redeem him? The thought made her giddy. What revenge she could take on him! She could break him beyond the point of any recovery, bend him to her will so that he would sing whenever she asked, play at the flick of her wrist. She would swim in all the gold she would earn. And all she had to do was end one pretty little life…

As she stared, her gaze suddenly fixed on the young man standing with his arms crossed, inconspicuously watching the strongmen. But he wasn't focused on them at all. Mariana could practically see him lean towards the two women behind her, his eyes watching the girl carefully. He had a blue coat on, a hat in his hands, police written all over him. The Gypsy smiled again.

Leaning off the crates, Mariana sauntered forward unobtrusively. Her arm slipped in the crook of the police's easily as she passed, and she yanked him around and dragged him off so easily. The boy started and began to hurriedly draw away, but she hugged his arm closer to her side.

"Relax," she cooed, smiling at him. The boy eased a bit, staring down at her in confusion. He was cute, she could give him that, but nowhere near old enough for her. Her hand patted his gently. "What's your name, boy?"

"Francois," he said warily. She tamed her smile enough to make it seem friendly.

"You're a policeman?"

"Gendarme, madame," he corrected politely.

"And you are hunting for this Don Juan?" The boy started and finally succeeded in pulling his arm away. He blinked at her in the dim light.

"How did you…Do you know him?"

"Oh, very well, monsieur," she said silkily, bowing her head deferentially. "I believe I have a business proposal you may find interesting."

---

"You want me to what?"

Mariana sighed. The boy was too good intentioned, just naïve enough for her to use him. She sat down on her stool again and spread her hands innocently. "When you capture this Don Juan, bring him back to me. I will put him to much better use than he would be in any jail cell, but he will pose just as little threat. I know how to deal with him."

"And you will let me take Mlle Danielle home to Paris?"

"Of course," she lied, her words dripping with honey. "If you agree, then I'll tell you where he has gone. You won't be able to find him without me." She waited patiently as the boy thought if over, pacing restlessly around her tent.

Francois finally stopped and looked at her. He put his hand out. "Agreed." Mariana smiled and shook his hand. "Now where has he gone?"

"There is only one place he would farther east from here." He waited anxiously as she smiled and spread her hands. "He's gone to Russia."


	12. Before the Bridge

**Author's Notes: **rubs hands together gleefully Oh yes, I dared to tackle _Don Juan Triumphant. _"Past the Point of No Return" was only the beginning, right? So, I got to make up and ending for it. Yes, the few unrecognizable lines I made up, and the very last two are supposed to be sung together (just wait and see). I'm pretty happy with this chapter, but I might end up going back later and sprucing it up a bit more, so if I edit it I will let you all know.

Pretty please R&R. Tell me what y'all think!

* * *

Chapter 12 – Before the Bridge

Summer had been short. Russia's winter was always an early guest, settling in for a nice long stay that was showered with cold storms and colder nights. Those nights were still far off, the fall just beginning to descend into frost and the crisp colors into shining white. Only a dusting was over the ground, more frozen dew than snow. Danielle wriggled her fingers in her gloves as she hefted her suitcase in front of the latest opera house.

Whispers had flown ahead of them. The first night, Don Juan was a god, astounding the audience with his song. But in the second performance, Aminta was a quiet, passionate goddess, and her _Fenris' Cry_ became an attraction as much as the opera itself. It swept from Luxembourg to Belgium to Germany. And now back to the winter cold. _Nearly a year. _Could it really have been that long already? Sometimes she nearly lost hope of every catching up, of ever finding Erik. Sometimes she feared she was doomed to follow in his footsteps and repeat his song with her own, like Echo crying after Narcissus for eternity. But then she would sing, or play _Fenris,_ and she knew she had to go on.

She pushed open the door with an ancient groan, her bag bouncing against her leg. She bypassed the man in the lobby selling tickets and walked imperially though to the house as if she had done it a thousand times. She could feel the blood flushing her cheeks as the warm air of the theater enveloped her.

It was a familiar sight that met her when she stepped inside. People hurried about in anticipation for the night, props being arranged, seats cleaned, costumes being fixed. The orchestra played beneath the baton of a rather energetic man. Danielle strode down the aisle, now so used to the routine of appropriating her part that she felt no hesitation. Her suitcase fell into a seat, followed by her bag, while she waited patiently for the particular song being rehearsed to end. She pulled her gloves off.

"And who might you be?" he said suddenly, twisting his head around. The maestro was surprisingly young, dark curly hair falling in his eyes. He had an old green scarf wound around his neck, the fingers poking out of his gloves tapping the baton in his other palm. He waited impatiently, the baton smacking constantly in his palm, but despite his restlessness he didn't seem angry at all.

"Good day, monsieur," she said, offering a small bow of her head. "I wish to offer to sing in tonight's performance." The maestro unexpectedly sprang from the pit and came to stand before her. His arms folded across his chest as he looked her up and down, and Danielle frowned indignantly, standing taller and lifting her chin.

"You want to sing Aminta's part, is that it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Enough 'monsieur,' girl. You're a soprano?"

"Yes," she said crisply. He was no where near old enough to be calling her 'girl.' The maestro tapped his finger against his cheekbone, still eyeing her. It was a very precise look, not that of a man checking out a flirtatious brat, but looking for something he needed. He carefully circled around her, examining her posture.

"A little tall," he muttered, "and straight hair. Hmm…"

"What, do you want me to show some leg?" Danielle finally snapped in exasperation. The man suddenly laughed, a deep chuckle in his throat.

"Well, go on, sing a bit for us." Some of the musicians and actors were watching them, nudging each other congenially. Danielle could guess that the man made sport of everyone who came in here. She pulled off her coat as he strode back to his stand, but she didn't bother to step up to the stage. Three perfect lines rang out, and the maestro froze and very slowly turned back around to face her. A boyish grin and a mischievous light were in his eyes, like Maurice sneaking into the dormitories late at night.

"Perfect," he murmured to himself. "So this is what he wanted. We have our Aminta," he announced louder to the rest of the people gathered. "When Don Juan gets back, tell him he can stop searching for some naïve chorus girl to sing. Miss, if you wouldn't mind going to the back for some measurements…"

"I have my own dress." He blinked at her in surprise, but Danielle ignored it. "Who is playing Don Juan?" She had no idea how long the opera had been playing in Russia: it had taken her longer to get here than she had liked.

"A superb singer, miss, don't worry. You can meet him when he gets back. I must say, quite nice of him to go running off to try and find another girl to sing the part. You see, my prima donna stormed off a few days ago because I refused to let her ruin _Aida _with her overbearing pompousness. Very fickle, prima donnas. By the way, I am Vladimir, miss…"

"Danielle Daaé de Chagny," she said. She was starting to like this man. He took her hand and kissed it extravagantly.

"Enchantez. If you'll come this way." He showed her himself to a free dressing room and waited while she changed, discussing the score with her. "You're quite familiar with it, aren't you?"

Behind the screen, Danielle sighed softly. "Yes, monsieur. Very familiar."

"Then perhaps you can explain to me this whole thing with Don Juan's mask." She paused in pulling the lace over her shoulders. No one had ever bothered to ask about the story. When she arrived, most directors and maestros were still working at perfecting the score, getting every last note down. Of course they were impressed with how she knew every detailed nuance of it. But none of them had asked about the story, about what the piece was really about.

"Don Juan is just what his reputation implies," she started softly, "a man who can defeat anyone in battle, bring any woman to his bed, and has a face so handsome he could command the world to his feet. At the beginning of the opera, his lusts are focused on Aminta, the maid of one Isabella. Isabella herself has her eye fixed on Don Juan, but does not know his face. So he contrives the great plan to disguise his servant Passarino as himself to distract Isabella, while he steals Aminta away into his own bed.

"After that fateful night, Don Juan detaches himself from Aminta. He tries to forget her like he does most women, but he finds his thoughts filled with her, his mind clouded with her scent, his hands aching for the feel of her. Mariana herself attempts to ignore him, convince herself that she should hate him for the lecherous demon he is. But she can't. Isabella, meanwhile, plots to get Don Juan for herself. She invites him to her own home, sits by her fire and flirts disgustingly. But when the moment comes, he cannot betray the love he harbors for Aminta. Isabella becomes filled with rage, sweeps up a pan of hot coals and flings them into Don Juan's face. He cries out and clutches his face, now burned and excruciating. He goes back to Aminta, crawls back to her in disgrace with his shame hidden by a mask. His face, he thought was the only thing he had to offer to her in retribution for his terrible past." Danielle came out from behind the screen, pinning the red rose into her hair distractedly. "Is that what you meant by the 'thing with Don Juan's mask'?" she asked quietly.

Vladimir stared at her for a moment. "I don't think the composer himself could have explained it better," he murmured. Danielle dropped her hand back slowly to her side, staring at the young maestro.

"No," she said to herself, "no he couldn't." _Because that's what he told me._ Blinking, Vladimir rose from his seat to bow politely before opening the door. He seemed to be thinking about it all the way back to the house. When they reached the stage, everyone admired Danielle's dress when she climbed up to the stage with gooseflesh beneath the light fabric. Vladimir assured her that it would get warmer once the furnaces were stoked up.

They ran through the opera in a by now very familiar routine to Danielle. She smoothed out the more difficult parts of the score, pointed out where props and sets should go, while constantly glancing back to the door. No one seemed anxious about the lead male still not being back. The day wore away, and still nothing. A woman eventually came to take Danielle back to her dressing room. "Oh, he'll show up any minute now. Foreigners, always fashionably late, dah? Let's go and get you ready, though." Still looking back to the doors with a strange sense of anticipation, Danielle let Natasha lead her away to the dressing room.

---

Francois Nereaux had decided that he hated Russia. The city was too big and sprawling, the streets already beginning to grow muddy from the melting frost and the pending snow. He had abandoned his uniform, sadly—the stark blue of the police gave him great pride to wear—in exchange for plainer clothes, blending in. He just managed to buy a ticket to the opera, all the way in the back of the house. Apparently, the Gypsy woman had been right.

After making his deal with her, she had smiled and said that she and her friends would wait in Germany for him. No need to rush, she had claimed, just bring him back. And, she had pressed with a surprising amount of fierceness, don't damage him.

Over the months, he had become fiercely eager to find this masked man. His correspondence with the Parisian _gendarmes_ had produces an unbelievable amount of incriminating evidence against him: a thief, prying money out of the management twenty years ago; a murderer, hanging Joseph Buquet during a performance of _Il Muto; _even a kidnapper. No one on the force really knew what had happened after the first performance of _Don Juan Triumphant _twenty years ago at the Paris Opera, but there was enough information for Nereaux to start making guesses. The Opera Ghost had abducted Christine Daae, le Vicomte de Chagny had followed, and then somehow the murderer had escaped under the noses of a mob of gendarmes and angry men and women under the employ of the Paris Opera.

Francois refused to let the same happen again.

---

Erik strode into the theater grimly, a very black mood hanging about him. "Not a single woman worth dragging down here. Not one! Where has all the talent in Russia gone?" The actors fell silent as he drew down the aisle, watching him warily. A few gazes flicked between him and the maestro, who sat in the front row with a smug, poorly-concealed grin on his face. Erik's thick cloak swirled around him as he drew to a halt by the man's seat. "What has you grinning?" he snapped.

"Well, what would you think if I told you that I found a girl to sing Aminta for you?" Erik scowled behind his mask.

"And how is it that I have not heard of this girl before now?"

"She came in shortly after you left, very confidently offering to sing the part. She knows the opera quite well, Don Juan, I'd say as well as you do."

"Can she sing?"

"You know I wouldn't have given her the part if she couldn't." Vladimir waited patiently as Erik frowned, thinking. It was nearly time to begin, and he hadn't expected to be performing tonight with the lack of a soprano. But if Vladimir claimed that he had found someone…

"I'll be in my dressing room," he said briskly before striding off.

He had been getting pickier. After months of barely trained chorus girls, impossible prima donnas, he had begun to remember why he used to drop sceneries on Carlotta's head. No one was worthy of singing, and it wasn't just because it was his opera. No one's voice sounded right in the part, except hers. He would sometimes stand behind the curtain, waiting to hear her voice on the other side. He could barely stand to hold another woman near him, couldn't stop thinking of how they would try to see behind the mask, how they would cringe and flinch and run from it when they foolishly took it off.

Of course he hadn't allowed it to happen, not since Giselle. But he still thought of it. He was an outcast, doomed to live a life apart.

And without Danielle…that life had no meaning to him.

---

The lights dimmed in the theater, the orchestra striking up the interlude. Danielle raced through the backstage, stopping just behind the curtained wings to catch her breath. Natasha had kept her nearly to the beginning of the opera. She had missed Don Juan's entrance, but that was how it was in the play. Aminta didn't know who he was until now, anyway. Fixing her hair and taking one last even breath, Danielle scooped up her basket of roses and glided onto the stage. The flowers were beautifully soft and wine colored when she knelt, picking idly at the thorns. Her gaze passed discreetly over the audience, and for a moment she thought she saw Nereaux's shock of blond hair. Curses, she was going to kill that boy for being so determined. Why couldn't he be a spy or something, somewhere far away where he wouldn't bother her?

The soft sound of the curtain stirred behind her as Don Juan entered, and Danielle's fingers paused on the stem of the rose.

_You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge_

_In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent…_

Danielle's breath caught in her throat, and she nearly dropped the flower. She turned her head to glance over her shoulder. Erik stared down at her, breathing hard. The rose slipped from her fingers to fall on the ground.

It took everything she had not to leap to her feet and rush over to him. She was so stunned that she nearly forgot to breathe. He swallowed and gave his cloak a flourish. Danielle recalled herself and stood, unable to tear her eyes away from him. After a moment, Erik smiled faintly and a look of triumph came back to his eyes. He started singing again. It was as if they were back in Paris, no one watching them but their silent theater, singing for each other and no one else. They climbed up the stairs to the balcony above, finally falling into each other's arms as they sang.

_Past the point of no return, the final threshold,_

_The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn._

_We've passed the point of no return._

Erik wrapped his arms around her, Danielle leaning back into him. Her arm reached back to hold his lips against her shoulder, her head falling back on his. "Erik," she whispered as the lights dimmed on the first act. All she had wanted for months and months was to be in his arms, and now that she was here there was nothing else to say. Erik breathed against her skin and nestled his cheek against her hair, unable to form any words. His fingers trailed over her arm, paused over the small scars beneath the lace. He brushed her arm tenderly, apologetically. His sigh, if it was possible, was the happiest and yet saddest sound in the world.

He had tried. He had tried to convince himself that when he saw her, she wouldn't rush into his arms and everything would be the way it had been. That the little ring wasn't meant for her, even though he knew it would fit perfectly on her slender pianist's hand. That the touch of her skin wouldn't put the warmth so long absent back into his blood.

He had tried. But, oh, how in vain.

The instant he had heard her voice, his spirit had soared. The world had dropped back into place, like a key finally giving way in a lock, and he had sighed from pure relief. He hadn't realized how incomplete he had felt, how torn asunder and cast into the empty darkness he had been. He had swept aside the curtain to step out to her, but when he saw her…

His voice had faltered, his spirit falling as if it had been struck by lightning. She was kneeling on the ground, not even aware he was behind her. Just like in his dream. The rose slipped from her fingers.

And then she had turned to look at him. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes with their sparkling hazel depths, had lit up at the sight of him. He knew that everything he was feeling at that moment was reflected in those eyes, those beautiful eyes. He had treasured them since he had first seen their flash of green that night long ago, holding her against him after their dance. She had said that no one ever noticed it, no one but him.

Erik suddenly found his voice, then, the rest falling away, and he clung to the pure joy of having her here, of singing with her like he could with no other. Their voices were otherworldly, overpowering anything the world had come to expect. And when she was finally in his arms, it felt so right that there were no words to express it. Now he could only breathe against her shoulder, holding her close.

Then she whispered his name. That was it. He remembered her calling him in her twisted, fever-wracked dreams, breathing it as she clutched him tight in the Opera after the masquerade. He unwrapped one arm from around her and brushed the scars still there. He needed her to yell at him, to blame him for letting her be hurt. Anything to make leaving her again easier. He couldn't stay and put her in danger again. It would be like running a stake through his own heart if he let it happen. Leaving would rip it out, he knew, but he could live through that. It had happened before, his fragile heart dropped and forgotten along with a rose on the roof of the Paris Opera twenty years ago. He had survived, if barely.

_For now just let me hold her. Let her know I love her before we're torn apart again._

---

Aminta sat on Don Juan's bed, waiting anxiously and toying with the pristine sheets. When he came in, his steps dragging, he touched the mask he wore wretchedly. Aminta saw him and leapt from the bed, about to fly into his arms, when he looked up at her. The pained light in his eyes halted her steps, leaving her beside the bed.

_My masquerade is over and my past now claims my soul,_

_The gift I would have given now lies twisted, shunned and cold._

His slow steps brought him closer, and Aminta stepped towards him worriedly. He took a terribly shuddering breath and gathered her hands in his own. Danielle's heart quickened as she looked up into his eyes behind the black mask.

Those eyes weren't the eyes of an actor. Erik's pale gaze looked down at her, filled with more pain and regret than Don Juan ever could have felt. From beneath his coat he pulled out a shining dagger and pressed the hilt into her palm. Danielle would have cried out even if she wasn't supposed to._ Why, _she was whispering fearfully in her mind, _why did I never realize? _How many times had she acted this scene, never feeling this real? They weren't acting anymore: this was their story. She tried to pull herself away from his grasp, but he swept her hand up and pressed the tip of the blade to his chest.

_For now I wear death's own dark face_

_And only wait for steel's cold embrace._

_Free me from this waking nightmare_

_Take the hellfire from my soul! But…_

And he paused, Danielle letting one tear slip down her cheek. He blamed himself for everything, she saw now, and the opera was no longer a fantasy they could play out. He leaned forward, his hand shifting on hers over the hilt. His breath was weighted with unshed tears. "One last kiss, before I close my eyes and face the end alone?" He hesitated over her lips, and Danielle leaned forward and kissed him. His hand clung to her back as he held her close. His lips tasted like the ocean, like the sea from all the tears he had never let fall on them. The tears he had finally let fall on her shoulders. With a gasp he pulled away and dropped his hands from hers, holding them palm forward in a desperate plea. He shut his eyes, but Danielle saw the single teardrop fall beneath his mask.

Danielle stood there, staring at him. _He's not asking me to kill him. He's asking me to end it, to tell him I never loved him. He's been waiting on the edge this whole time, looking down into the abyss of his loneliness._ _He's waiting for me to choose to leave. To push him over._

The dagger clattered away across the stage. Erik opened his eyes, meeting hers. Tremulously, Danielle reached out her hand to touch his cheek, a sad smile on her lips.

_Your masquerade is over, and your noon of triumph fades._

_And now the dark you once revered has laid on you its chains._

_But you hold my heart inside your palm._

_With out without your mask, Don Juan, I love you._

Danielle slid her fingers beneath the mask and carefully pulled it off. The audience gasped in horror as she unveiled his face, and Erik himself looked remorseful. But there was more. He looked hopeful, hopeful after such a long time of denying himself. The audience fell silent as she traced a loving hand over his face, transfixed by the two on the stage. They weren't even aware of them. Erik's hand trembled faintly as he rested it over her own and pulled it down to hold against his heart.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_Lead me save me from my solitude._

_Say you want me with you here, beside you._

_You alone cane make my song take flight._

He pulled her against him, and Danielle wrapped her arms around his neck as she sang the last line with him.

_-Guide me through the darkness of the night._

_-I'll hold you through the darkness of the night._

The curtain fell on perfect silence. Danielle and Erik stayed still in each other's arms. She drew a shaky, tremulous breath and buried her head in his shoulder.

"I tried, Erik," she murmured, tears falling on his coat like dewdrops. "I tried to free you from your chains. But I've only given you new ones, haven't I? The gendarmes will never stop following us; Nereaux will never leave us alone. You can't even go back to Paris."

"No, Danielle, no." He drew back and wiped a tear from her cheek. She couldn't help smiling faintly at the touch of his hand. "You have given me a second chance. Don't cry, Angel." She stared at him for a long time, studying his face. She finally leaned against him again and wrapped her arms tight around him. His hand stroked her hair gently, resting his head on her shoulder. Danielle wished that they could say like that forever, lost in a world of dark silence.

"I love you, Erik," she said softly. His hand paused.

"So that's how you say it," he whispered. His arms gathered her closer, if that was possible, and he leaned down to breathe in her ear. "I love you, Danielle," he said. Why had he never said that to her before? It seemed so strange that he had waited so long to admit it to her. "I love you." He sighed against her neck, pressing his bared cheek against her skin. Danielle smiled and ran her hands into his hair. A smile crossed his face, and he suddenly lifted his head and pushed her back just enough so he could look at her. "Danielle, let's go," he said. She blinked up at him, her wistful smile growing on her lips.

"But what about Nereaux? He followed me, I know it."

"I don't care," he said, shaking his head. He laughed faintly. "I don't care anymore. He's only one man. We outran them before. I have a room in the city where we can go. You won't have to wear my mask. We won't have to run anymore after this." A slow smile spread on her face. Erik was suddenly laughing, and when she nodded he bent down to kiss her. Hand in hand, they fled the stage, racing to their dressing rooms.

They were escaping the opera. They were escaping the world

All they left behind them was the mask.


	13. How Long Two Wait

**Author's Notes: **So yeah, wrote all day to finish this chapter. At first I wasn't happy with it, but I think I've hammered it out enough. Now I'm quite pleased. R:&R, tell me what you think, as always, hugs and kisses. Your obedient friend, Reves.

Chapter 13 – How Long Two Wait

Francois hurriedly climbed the stairs. He slipped the bullets into his revolver, loading every slot, and clicked the safety off. His boots padded on the thin carpet as he carefully stalked down the hall. He had the coat of his blue uniform back on, and he tucked the revolver into it, his fingers resting on the trigger.

They had slipped right through his fingers. He had watched the opera from the back of the theater, only realizing that Don Juan was the man he had been hunting for months on end as she pulled off his mask. And Mademoiselle Danielle was willingly playing into his hands. He had watched in horror as she wrapped her arms around him, and that despicable monster held her tight, and just as he had begun frantically formulating a plan, the curtain had dropped.

Their bags were gone from the dressing rooms, a window left open in his, and footsteps disappearing beneath the falling snow.

He had searched for the past hour and a half, looking through hotels near the opera, until he had found the one. The owner had been almost grateful to admit to the presence of a strange man wearing mask renting one of his rooms. When Nereaux had explained that the man could be a thief and a murderer, the owner had quickly handed over the second key to the room. Francois pulled it out of his pocket now, and fit it swiftly into the lock.

Erik sighed and leaned back against the propped up pillows on the bed, folding his hands behind his head. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth across the room. Their bags sat near the chair by it, the damp cloaks drying on the back. He felt a sense of triumph looking over the normalcy of it all, as if he had simply taken a short vacation, returning from a night at the theater with his…

His thoughts strayed to the little gold ring, again. It was still around his neck, turned so that it hung at his back. His thoughts wandered as he fingered the chain idly, staring at the fire through his mask.

Danielle quietly stepped out of the bathroom. An old red, satin shift clung to her, the long skirt brushing the floor and hiding her bare feet. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, falling over her ear as she smiled at him and pushed it back. He could see the thoughts in her hazel eyes as she watched him, the sense of longing for the familiarity of this scene. She looked beautiful in the firelight. Erik sat up from the pillows and patted the sheets beside him, holding out an inviting hand.

"Come, you'll catch cold with your bare feet." She smiled and padded across the thick carpet to climb into the bed. He leaned back into the pillows as she kissed him, her hand placed tenderly on his chest. "You hands are so cold," he murmured against her lips, smiling faintly. Danielle gasped and her hand flinched back.

"I'm sorry," she said with an apologetic smile. She started to get off the bed to warm her hands by the fire. "I don't know why they're always cold…" Erik's hand grabbed hers before she could leave his side. He turned her face back to his with a brush of her cheek, gently gathering her cold hands within his own. Danielle looked at him as the warmth from his palms slowly seeped into her own, his white mask painted a faint orange from the fire.

"I know why. They're always so cold when you play, or write. It's like your body takes the warmth to fuel the fire beneath your breast. Your passion." One hand slowly slipped from his. The old instinct in him tried to convince him to move away, escape her grasp, but his trust in her had grown so great that he did not move as she took his mask off. She wanted to see him. Him. A faint smile crossed his lips as she brushed strands of his hair out of his eyes, unreservedly looking over his face as she set the mask aside.

"You really don't care, do you?"

"No," she said with a small smile, "I care all too much." The months apart seemed to be melting away. Erik's arm wrapped around her as she laid down beside him. She fit so perfectly by his side, molded against him as if they had been made for each other. He leaned his temple against her silky hair, pillowed with a comfortable weight on his shoulder.

_If I were to die right now, I'd die a happy man._ He shut his eyes to the dancing fire, to the night outside the window. All that existed was Danielle's steady breath beside him, her cool fingers splayed across his chest as he caressed her palm. He could breathe again. He realized that he had been holding his breath this whole time. The very air tasted sweeter.

"If only we had some hot chocolate," Danielle laughed contentedly.

"The one thing I don't have," he replied lightly. "The stars, the moon, the music of the night…and you ask for chocolate." He laughed, and Danielle smiled as it tickled her ear still pressed to his chest. "But then I suppose you don't need me to give you the stars or the moon, do you, Angel?"

"No, but I have all the music I need."

"That's right. I didn't get to hear your score." He touched her arm gently. Danielle sighed happily and shrugged her shoulder, letting Erik slip the robe's sleeve down. He gently pushed it past her elbow, trailing his fingers over her soft skin. "Does it hurt you ever?"

Danielle opened her eyes and slowly raised herself on her elbow. She could still feel Erik's heart beating beneath her palm, unchanged from the night he had first taken her hand to his chest. Her other hand moved to hold Erik's over the small scars in her arm. "No, Erik," she said softly. "And you don't need to hear it. It's in here." Her hand traced up his chest adoringly. "This is where it comes from. This is our music." She took his hand and placed it over her own heart, and Erik opened his pale blue eyes to stare into her hazel ones. The whole world was composed of their single pulse, then: the beat of the birds' wings outside the window, the horses' hooves on the road, the motion of the tides, even their breathing was as one. The fine chain around his neck gleamed as he guided Danielle's hand toward it, his grip slipping to lie on her forearm.

"Danielle," he said, so softly in that silent world. The ring hanging at his back obeyed her gentle beckon, easing over his shoulder as she pulled at the chain. His arm around her held her closer. "Danielle, would you…"

The light was cruel and merciless on their eyes as it fell through the suddenly opened doorway. They both squinted, turning their heads away. Erik's hand tightened on Danielle's arm.

"Let go of her," Nereaux growled. Dropping it off the doorknob, he put his hand back in his pocket. The key still stuck out of the lock. The way he held his coat out a bit, his hand stuck in the fabric in an unsettling way, left no room to imagine what he could be pointing at them. At Erik.

Danielle gaped at him as she realized with horror just how far his misconceptions ran. Erik's arm tight around her, her robe fallen from her shoulders to show the top of her corset and bare shoulders, both of them entangled on the bed sheets, couldn't have looked more incriminating to that misled gendarme. With an outraged cry she leapt from the bed to place herself between him and Erik. Again.

"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. Nereaux's revolver dropped as he removed his hand from the pocket. He tried to avert his eyes from her nightgown-clad form, but Danielle was beyond caring; she left her robe hanging low on her back in the crook of her elbows, placing her hands formidably on her hips.

"I'm here to take you home, mademoiselle. This is no company for a woman such as yourself." The scorn he barely concealed in his voice abruptly sent her over the edge. He thought Erik was a danger, a monster. It was just his luck that he had the sense enough not to say it aloud.

"How dare you," she hissed caustically. "How _dare _you? To think you have a right to interfere with our lives. To assume you know better." She would have launched into a series of terrible curses supplied by a lifetime of backstage workers if Erik's gentle hand hadn't touched her shoulder. Nereaux dipped his hand back into his pocket.

"I said don't," he threatened, but Danielle moved to shield Erik again. Her hair swayed as she shot a heated glare over her shoulder, putting her hand almost protectively on Erik's waist. When she turned back to him he wore a sad smile, putting his strong hands beneath her hair and onto her shoulders, tracing her neck lovingly. He was amazed at her fierceness. With the glare she had shot at the boy he was surprised Nereaux hadn't yelped from a third-degree burn yet. Her stiff shoulders loosened as he gently lifted her chin to meet his eye.

"Vendettas are bad for the soul," he said gently. She smiled and dropped her head as if embarrassed, and then her breath caught in a soft gasp. Erik looked down at the ring, hanging from its chain in the middle of his chest. It shone so innocently, so…longingly, in the firelight. Danielle's eyes gleamed wetly as she looked up at him.

"Erik…" _Say yes, _a voice in her mind whispered urgently. _Just say yes. _

"Don't, my Angel," he soothed as she vainly tried to form the word on her tongue, blinking fiercely at the heat in her eyes. "I never even dared to dream that this could happen. Don't regret." He pressed his brow to hers. "This will not be forever," he confided. "I promise you."

Danielle shut her eyes with her brow pressed against his. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't damn fair. Her hand reached up to wrap around his neck, now more for support than protection. "What will you do, M Nereaux," she said, not turning to him, her voice quavering faintly, "if I do not agree to come?"

The guard shifted, his hand still resting in his pocket. "I will take the midnight train for Paris, mademoiselle. If the train set out and you were no there…" he let it hang, "…then I would know who to come after."

"It's already eleven o'clock. You didn't leave yourself much time," she said condescendingly. She sighed and drew back from Erik to glance over her shoulder at Nereaux. "Am I allowed to change, or am I to walk through Russia dressed like this?"

Francois blushed above his tightened jaw. "You both slipped away at the opera. If you would use the bathroom, please."

"It's alright," Erik murmured in her ear. "He can't hurt me." Danielle looked between them anxiously, and Erik could see her steeling herself as she gathered her dress. As she threw the garment over her arm, her palm was suddenly thrust insistently in Nereaux's direction.

"Give me your pistol," she ordered calmly. Francois nearly laughed before shaking his head firmly. He would have spoken, but Danielle flexed her fingers, her spine stiffening. "M Nereaux, if you expect me to cooperate I must have some assurance. I cannot trust you after such a short meeting." Francois eyed her unwavering hand doubtfully.

Very slowly, almost ceremoniously, he took the revolver from his pocket and placed its grip in her palm. A brief look of frustration and profound sadness flashed across her face before she spun around and shut the bath's door.

Erik shot a side-long glance at Nereaux that would have been a formidable glare head on. "You are a very foolish man to inflict a woman's wrath," he said before turning away to gather his own clothes.

"What are you doing?" the boy snapped warily. Erik didn't pause in buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his tailcoat. He was probably leading himself to his own execution, but Erik refused to be forced anywhere bound, not when he had just been freed of his chains.

"Escorting Danielle to the train station." Francois looked like he was going to stop him. Folding his cravat, Erik murmured over his shoulder. "A very foolish man, indeed." The guard started and spun around, searching for the source of the voice in his ear.

There were definitely advantages to having 'Opera Ghost' on one's résumé.

Realizing he was the object of some trick of his voice, Nereaux stopped searching and sneered at Erik. "She should hate you," he said quite bluntly. No eloquence at all. Erik supposed it wasn't a trait most police needed, although he had always admired it in Nadir. He calmly straightened his jacket as he stood from lacing his polished dress shoes. It was painfully obvious that Erik looked much more distinguished than Nereaux with his fine clothes and confident stance. He turned to the chair by the fire.

"On that," he said quietly, "I agree with you." His hand paused a moment on the cloak before he picked it up and swung it around his shoulders. "But she does hate you. And who are we to convince her otherwise?" _I should kill him, _he thought. _I could kill him. _It had been so long since he had felt that compulsion. But they couldn't run forever. He didn't want to run forever. Killing the boy would surely seal them to the fate of fugitives, when at least Danielle deserved to grace the stage back in Paris for years to come.

When he turned back, he froze as stiff as a corpse. Francois was holding the mask, turning it over uneasily in his hands. "I just can't see it," he muttered. Erik held out his hand.

"Give that to me," he growled darkly. Francois looked up at him.

"You seduced her, and yet she defends you." His jaw was tight again in what he believe was righteous indignation. Erik paused.

"Were you watching the opera, tonight?"

"Yes, how else would I know you were here?" Erik reached out and snatched the mask from the boy's hands.

"Have you heard Danielle play her composition? On the piano?"

Francois hesitated, watching as Erik silently pressed the mask against his cheek. The boy sighed audibly as he did in unveiled relief before shaking his head. "No, I have never heard her play it."

"You should ask her, when you return to Paris. _Fenris' Cry. _Ask her to play it for you." The bathroom door opened softly. Danielle stood in a black dress with a loose skirt, her hair pinned up in a comb that left stray tendrils curling at her neck and along her cheek. She held the pistol at her side. The look she cast about the room was pained, as if she were desperately searching for something to stop this madness. But there was nothing there to find. She handed the pistol back to Nereaux and packed the robe back into her suitcase. As she turned to take her cloak, Erik was there first, placing it around her shoulders affectionately. She looked up at him longingly over her shoulder, sadly, and he leaned forward to kiss her temple.

Nereaux thought that Erik may have whispered something in her ear, but he couldn't hear what. He turned and opened the door, waiting in the hall, and silently led the way down the stairs.

Danielle insisted on waiting for Erik to get his horse out of the stable. Francois watched her sadly as she stood in the cold. Why did she love him? What had that monster ever done to earn such unending compassion?

"M Nereaux," she asked, her arms crossed, "what are you going to do with Erik?"

He blinked. She wouldn't look at him for a long moment, but when she did her eyes were full of worry. He hesitated and swallowed hard. "Bring him back to Paris," he said. He realized that he couldn't fulfill his promise to the Gypsy woman. The gendarmes would never let it slide if he let some vigilante woman with a grudge take care of a murderer in his custody. Francois might as well have turned himself in for assisted homicide when he got back if he handed the man over to her. He watched as Danielle nodded and turned back to the night, her breath forming a small cloud before her. When Erik appeared, the reins of a magnificent black mare in his hands, he put his arm around her shoulder and hers around his middle. Francois sighed and began walking through the streets to the train station.

"Erik," Danielle murmured, the two of them trailing behind the gendarme. Her other arm slipped around him as she lifted her hazel eyes to his face. "We could still get away." He looked down at her from behind his white mask. At that moment, he knew that if he asked, she would run away with him. She would abandon everything and escape with him. All they would have was each other. His steps slowed, and the two of them stood still in the dark street. She looked up at him, pressed close to his warmth as he held her against him.

_Was there anything more he could want? _They could get away. They could escape the stares, the hardships, this world of cruel survival and persecution where differences were shunned and despised. He need only say one word, take one step back.He opened his mouth to speak, glancing towards Nereaux. Athena bobbed her head as he readjusted his grip on her reins, and suddenly she whickered and reared back.

"Going somewhere, Don Juan?" Erik's arm tightened around Danielle, and her entire body tensed. Words abandoned him. Francois started and drew to a halt. A woman and three men stood in the dim light of a streetlamp, the woman smiling smugly with her arms crossed. Silks and sheer scarves were draped around her, an elegant cloak with fur at the collar pulled over her shoulders. As Danielle frowned at her, she thought that the fur had an orange color to it.

"Mariana," Erik growled, holding Danielle near him defensively. She glanced up at him, looked at his anxious, hunted expression. The woman laughed coldly.

"Hello, Don Juan." Her gaze flicked contemptuously over Danielle. "Enjoying the fresh air?" Francois blinked and held up a forestalling hand.

"Madame, what are you doing here? I have everything under control—"

"Of course you do, dear boy," she said dismissively, her gaze never wavering from Danielle and Erik, like a predator's on its chosen prey. The men behind her shifted, one of them cracking his knuckles. "But we've decided to take things into our own hands. You've been of great help to us."

Francois frowned and looked back at them. He held out a hand to Danielle. "Then, Mlle, would you come with me?" He looked slightly worried, as if he had failed in one aspect of his plan. Danielle, discreetly reaching over Athena's saddle behind Erik's back, hesitated.

"That won't be necessary, Monsieur." Francois blinked again and looked back at Mariana, his hand still outstretched to Danielle.

"But you said—"

"I will take care of mademoiselle myself."

"You can't," Erik suddenly snapped, his arm lifted defensively before her. His stance was the same as that night in the cellars after _Faust, _but hot rage had replaced the cold fury in his eyes that night. Danielle started as he began to turn to her, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't turn around," she whispered hurriedly. Her hand froze on Athena's saddle, bare inches away from the silver hilt of a sword. "What do you need?"

_For you to get away, _he wanted to say. Now he knew how Christine had felt while he watched Raoul, conceiving how to get to her through him. How to break her. He could only imagine what Mariana was thinking as she watched Danielle, a cold malicious grin twisting her lips. "The rope," he murmured softly instead, his lips barely moving.

"Madame, please," Francois said, "she has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, but she has everything to do with this," Mariana argued, both oblivious to her softly pulling the coil of rope from the mare's saddle. Erik's gloved hand closed on it as she pressed it against his palm, reaching once more for the hilt.

"But you said that you would let me take her back to Paris," Francois suddenly said.

"But was it not you who agreed to hand Don Juan over to me? You, who just said that you would take him back to Paris? To a jail cell? That is a paradise compared to what he deserves. With me, he will face justice." She held her chin up a bit, smiling triumphantly. "No better than an animal."

The sound of a blade sliding free of its sheath suddenly filled the air. Athena sidestepped as Danielle pushed past her, her hand tight around the skull-shaped hilt of the sword as she lifted it over the saddle. Erik grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving forward. "Never," she hissed, staring at the Gypsy. "You will never put him back in that cage, you beast." Erik sighed.

"Who is the beast, mademoiselle?" Danielle's hand tightened into a fist as Erik pulled her back. He pushed her against Athena, meeting her heated gaze.

"Don't, Danielle," he said quietly, firmly. "This is not your place. You don't have to do this."

"Neither should you," she said simply. He paused, staring at her from behind his mask. The anger in her eyes dissolved into frustrated anguish. "You shouldn't have to do this anymore."

Curses, would irony never leave him be? For years he had had no one to tell him he need not kill, that it was all for nothing in the courts at Mazanderan, the catwalks of the Opera. And now that he had no choice, he had Danielle's eyes pleading that he spill no more blood on his hands. But she knew he had no choice. One slender hand reached out to clasp his around the rope, still hidden beneath his cloak.

"You said that we wouldn't have to run anymore."

The thick thud of a punch suddenly reached their ears. Danielle flinched and looked past him to see Francois staggering, one hand lifting his pistol while the other went to his neck. His assailant knocked it from him easily, and suddenly the two were at each others throats. The other two men with Mariana advanced on Erik and Danielle. She tightened her grip on the hilt as Erik turned.

The lasso had tightened around the first man's neck before anyone could blink an eye, and he fell without a sound. They Gypsy's smile slipped, and Alfonse paused, eyeing Erik warily. With an angry gesture, Mariana threw her fur-line cloak over her shoulders and pulled a long knife from her belt. "Fine," she snapped vehemently, "have it your way, Devil's child. Hold the girl for me, Alfonse."

She stalked forward gracefully, like a cobra winding across the cobblestones. Erik flicked his wrist, calling the Punjab lasso back easily. Two cobras. As he did, Mariana rose her other hand to her eyes, grinning at him knowingly. The blade spun in her hand as she flourished it, slinking every closer.

"Do you like me new cloak, Devil's child?" she asked. In the weak light of the distant streetlamps, she almost looked to have fangs. Erik sneered and hefted the rope.

"Do you have no respect for anything living? For innocence?"

"There is no such thing as innocence, Devil's child. There never was." Her voice was almost hypnotic as she came closer. Every word was punctuated by the soft ring of bells tied about her ankle, by the sting of a whip on his side. "Innocence is just something you created a long time ago, a fantasy you could cling to in your own dark behind that mask. But it never existed." His grip slipped on the rope a bit. "It was all in your mind. It never existed."

No, it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. _But you were never innocent, _her eyes taunted him. If a babe cannot be innocent, then what can be? The knife gleamed as she stepped closer, held almost like a gift to him.

_The lily._ The poor little white flower she had plucked from life so long ago. Surely that was innocence. "Cat of Nine Tails," he murmured.

Mariana suddenly thrust the knife at his side, but Erik was too quick for her. He spun and looped the rope over her wrist, yanking her around. The Gypsy gave a feral growl and twisted away, landing her heel in the back of his knee. He fell to one knee, but not before he had twisted the knife from her grip. His cloak flourished as he leapt back to his feet, throwing her off balance.

They must have danced like that for an eternity, both reaching for the rope, the knife. Erik grabbed at the lasso, still knotted around Mariana's one wrist. She cried as he pulled it, dragging her close for him to loop the rest of the rope over her neck. Her foot twined around his ankle, and with a desperate shove she threw them both backwards.

There was a sickening pop as Erik landed on his shoulder, and his hands let go of the rope as he gasped in pain.

"Erik!" Danielle cried out. He forced his eyes open, one hand clasped to his dislocated shoulder. She was caught in Alfonse's arms, struggling against him as she stared down at him fearfully, a small cut giving her a vivid blush across her pale cheeks. The sword lay at the man's feet. Mariana crouched near Erik, pulling the lasso away from her arm. Her gaze flew from Danielle to him, and she smiled cruelly.

"Erik," she cooed, leaning over him. Her fingers pulled at his mask, tearing it away to bare him to the night. "So that is your name, Devil's child?" Her words dripped with honey, like poison from a viper's fangs. She threw the mask away, shattering it against the cobblestones, and traced a hand across his face. Erik growled, glaring up at her, but she reached out her other hand to place it on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, but he could not stop the groan that escaped him as she pressed it down.

"I was willing to give you everything, Erik," she said, tasting the name on her lips. "I was willing to be reasonable. But now you've shut that door yourself." Her hand weighed painfully on his dislocated shoulder, and Danielle struggled against her captor as he groaned in pain again. Mariana's eyes flashed wildly as she turned her head to the woman. "Alfonse, silence her." His fist caught her in the middle, so hard that she doubled over, blood flecking her lips as she gasped for breath. Mariana watched pitilessly as she rose from Erik's side, Alfonse drawing back from the girl. She caught the young noblewoman as her knees gave way.

Her hand brushed Danielle's cheek so that she looked up at her, her hazel eyes fierce but clouded with pain. "A hard fate," she said quietly, leaning down to whisper in her ear. Danielle's face was pallid as she tore her gaze away from Erik. "A hard fate, when all you did was fall in love." She smiled as her fingers dug into the girl's arm, and heard the whistle of the Punjab lasso too late. Alfonse fell very slowly as the rope fell loose of its master's hand, cast for the last time. Mariana's eyes went wide as she watched him crumple to the ground, like no more than a rag doll. The hand she had on Danielle's cheek turned into a claw, and she struck her so hard that she fell back to the cobblestones.

"How dare you!" she shrieked, turning to Erik furiously. He was panting, gripping his arm after throwing the lasso. Pain shot through the joint, as if it were on fire, and when Mariana's boot fell on it he actually cried out. "You will pay for that, you lifeless corpse!" The Gypsy snatched up the knife, spinning back to Danielle. She was raising herself slowly to all fours, her cloak in tatters and her hair falling raggedly around her face, breathing hard. Mariana bent down to catch her by the arm and haul her up, the knife diving for her flesh.

The sword point met her just between the ribs. The hand on Danielle's arm pulled the cloak off as she stared in shock at the skull hilt gripped tight in that pale, slender hand. The knife fell from her hands as Danielle staggered back against the wall, taking the stained blade with her. Mariana collapsed without a sound, only the faint whisper of gold bells ringing her death knell.

The world was deathly silent after that. The metallic clash of the sword slipping from Danielle's shaking hand could have shattered the world, it was so loud. She slid down the wall, holding her side as she breathed raggedly. Exhausted, she leaned her head against the wall and shut her eyes, her breath slowing.

"Danielle," Erik called, wincing as he rose to his feet. He stepped over the Gypsy's body and knelt beside her, holding his wounded arm close to him as he touched her cheek with his other. "Danielle, look at me." She barely flicked an eyelash. Fear overcoming him, he cupped her cheek in his palm. "I won't sing your requiem, Danielle. Now look at me!"

"I wouldn't have you sing my requiem," she said softly, lifting one hand to lace her fingers through his. He sighed in relief as she opened her eyes. "Erik, what have I done?"

He pulled her close, resting her head on his opposite shoulder. "What you had to, Danielle," he said. She shivered slightly, pressing her hand against his chest, and Erik wrapped his cloak around them both. Every shred of adrenaline-forced tension suddenly loosened in him, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder.

"You're hurt," she said, drawing back to look at him. Her hand fleetingly touched his shoulder, so lightly that he felt no pain from it. Instead of answering, he wiped away the thin trail of blood from the corner of her lips.

"So are you." She smiled and shook her head, laughing weakly. He gathered her close again, both of them shrouded in his thick cloak.

Neither of them wanted to turn to see whose footsteps were drawing closer. Francois watched them both for a minute, nursing a gash near his ear. His eyes flicked over the Gypsy, the shattered mask. He bent to pick up his pistol and slip it back into his coat pocket. When Danielle and Erik finally looked up at him, he held out a hand.

"We can still make the train." Danielle frowned, but then looked around at the scene surrounding them. Francois helped her to stand, and they both helped Erik keep his balance as he stood, holding his arm near his chest. He bent down again, though, and silently pulled the black cloak from the Gypsy woman's body. Danielle slipped an arm around his waist as he draped it over her shoulders. The tiger's fur brushed her neck as he smoothed it out reverently.

"Athena," he suddenly said, looking around. He whistled softly, and after a moment the mare trotted to his side, whickering as she nosed his cheek. Danielle smiled. Francois gestured for them to hurry, and turned to stride down the street. "My mask," Erik said after a minute, touching his cheek. Danielle held Athena's reins in her hand, Erik's good arm wrapped around her shoulders as they supported one another. She glanced around, and suddenly snatched a black wool hat with an angled brim off a store front.

Walking beside them now, Francois frowned. "Mademoiselle, we shouldn't—"

"Then leave some coins. This one's old anyway." And she snugged it low over Erik's brow, hiding nearly the whole half of his face. She paused, a wistful smile crossing her lips. Erik frowned.

"What?'

"That hat suits you." Erik managed a debonair grin, standing a little straighter. When they reached the train, the first flakes of a fresh snow were just beginning to fall. Erik secreted Athena in a freight car, and the three of them climbed into the last car on the train.

11


	14. In This Labyrinth

**Author's Notes: **I'm so sorry this took so long, I've been really busy lately, and it's only going to get worse. I'm in my junior year at high school, and I've got SATs and APs and who knows what other acronym tests coming up. So I'll try as hard as I can to keep to an update at least once a week, but if I'm late don't kill me. Enjoy!

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Chapter 14 – In This Labyrinth 

Francois Nereaux sighed as the feeling of the train's movement softly rattled the window panes and the compartment door. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, across from Danielle and Erik. The two were asleep, Erik's head pillowed on Danielle's shoulder with his arm resting on her knee. A scarf from Danielle's suitcase was tied around his neck as a sling after Francois had popped the joint back into place. He had grudgingly admitted that he couldn't do it himself, and Danielle couldn't in her state, either, so Francois had silently grabbed his arm and forced his shoulder back.

They looked so peaceful. He just couldn't understand it. Mlle Danielle was like a beautiful rose in full blossom that had begun to support a creeping vine, unaware as it slowly imprisoned her and pulled her sweet life away. It curdled his blood to think that such a beautiful woman could be tricked by such a twisted monster as that man. At least, that's what he had thought.

She had stood like an angry wolf over her fallen mate when Mariana and her thugs had jumped them. And her look of fierce hatred when the Gypsy had called Erik an animal. He wondered if she would have looked at him the same way if he had failed in stopping himself from doing the same.

He finally noticed her dark eyes watching him. Francois shifted and sat up a little straighter. She blinked, one hand playing with the brim of Erik's hat. "What did we do to you," she asked quietly, watching him carefully, "to deserve any of this?"

He blinked in confusion. "Mademoiselle?"

"We never did anything to you," she went on simply. "In fact, you were the one who attacked us. So what did we do?"

"Mademoiselle, I don't think you realize the gravity of the situation you were in." He paused a moment. "We?"

"Yes, we." Her eyes flashed, but it disappeared quickly. She sighed and looked away for a moment before looking back at him, waiting. "I love him."

"Danielle, please," he murmured. "You must realize what has happened. He captured you with his voice, and you fell for him. It happens. But he lied. He…seduced you. You must overcome whatever you feel and see the truth of this." His gaze fixed on hers, which was surprisingly cool and collected.

"That is the most foolish thing I have ever heard," she said simply, softly.

"You said that you loved him."

"What's foolish is that you ever thought I was his captive." Francois blinked. Danielle sighed and leaned her head back against the seat. He frowned, turning to stare out the window. Had he been wrong? Silence fell over them for a time until she quietly raised her voice again. "Do you know who that woman was?"

He turned back to her. "No," he admitted simply.

"Yet you agreed to take Erik back to her?"

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Yes, mademoiselle. But what I told you was true. I knew that I couldn't hand him over to her even if I had promised. I planned to take him back to Paris."

"Do you know what she was going to do with him?" He blinked. Danielle's hand had stilled on the hat's brim, and she waited for him patiently, her expression indiscernible.

"No."

She sat up, keeping Erik's shoulder carefully in place. She fixed him with such an unveiled glare now that Francois felt his mouth go dry. "She was going to put him in a cage," she said, her voice thick. "Put him back in a cage. Like a beast. Just like what you think he deserves." She paused, swallowing and blinking away the wet gleam in her eyes. "It's because of people like you that Erik has to wear his mask at all."

"Ma-" Francois stopped, biting down on his tongue. A cage? That's what the Gypsy wanted with him? Reluctantly, Francois glanced at the man sleeping on her shoulder, resting with such sincere exhaustion on the woman that he loved. That loved him back. With the brim of the hat pulled down so low to hide his face, Erik looked like any other man. The gendarme licked his lips uncertainly as Danielle shut her eyes, sighing wearily, and sat back against the seat distractedly. "He never seduced you, did he?" he asked. Her eyes slid open again, but he wasn't looking at her now. He remembered the opera, remembered how they had sung to each other, and the dagger at the end. Even from the very back of the house, he had appreciated how well acted the whole scene was, Don Juan's defeated submission, and Aminta's gentle compassion. But now he realized… "Neither of you were acting in the opera."

She shook her head, slowly dropping her hand from the hat brim. "No."

"I only did what I thought had to be done," he said weakly, and as he looked out the window Danielle thought he looked like a horrified older brother who has failed to look after his sibling. "I thought you needed protecting."

"You followed me all this way because you thought you had to repay me, didn't you?" she asked, and Francois looked back at her. An expression of understanding came over Danielle's face. "You thought you had to repay me for hurting me before, after the masquerade. For shooting me." The young gendarme nodded and hung his head ashamedly. She smiled faintly. "I never claimed any debt over you for that."

"But now I've made things worse, for trying to right a wrong that you never even condemned in the first place." Her face fell. Danielle opened her mouth to try and say something, but suddenly any power over her words vanished, her brow furrowing as she realized it. Francois looked back out the window in defeated frustration, unaware of her suddenly stiff silence. Danielle looked down at Erik, still leaning on her shoulder.

"Francois," she said softly, her voice breaking so that she forcefully cleared her throat. The gendarme looked back at her. Danielle was still gazing at Erik when she spoke. "Francois, if you still want to repay me, I know what you can do."

"What?" he asked warily. She blinked and looked up at him.

"Let Erik go."

"What?" he repeated, louder this time. The man in question shifted on Danielle's shoulder, and she was careful not to move his arm, grateful for an excuse to look away from Francois. The gendarme shifted and frowned, lowering his voice. "You know that I can't do that, Mademoiselle. He's in my custody."

"No he's not," she broke in. "You never said he was under arrest. I don't know what you've been waiting for, but you never said it."

"He's killed at least three people, Danielle!"

"Then you might as well arrest me, too." He blinked, hesitating. "I killed Mariana. So if you arrest him, you should arrest me as well."

"That was in self defense."

"Erik killed those men in self defense. Even you did."

"What about Buquet? The chandelier? None of that was self defense."

Danielle sighed, biting her lip for a moment. "That was a long time ago. He's already paid for it, time and time again." Francois waited, but she said no more. He sighed, running a hand over his eyes.

"Where could I let him go where I know he would do no harm?"

"Let him go back to Germany, to the fair. He never did anything to anyone there."

"Leave who in Germany?" Francois and Danielle both started as Erik spoke. He lifted his head off of Danielle's shoulder, holding his arm close in its splint, and stared at both of them. He looked down at Danielle, his pale eyes intent on her hazel. "Danielle, leave who?"

"Erik," she said softly, her voice quavering again. He paused, his eyes peering into her soul. His hand lifted up to catch a stray tendril of her hair, winding it through his fingers before setting it loose behind her ear again. Her hand caught his, and he let her hold it in her lap.

"This is how it has to be. We don't have a choice now." She swallowed and began to speak, but he hushed her with a squeeze of her hand. "You won't tell me to go away again, because I know you don't want to." Danielle fell silent, and Erik smiled at her faintly. She had been so strong all this time, never giving into her fears or her sorrows. Now it was his turn to be strong for her. She smiled back weakly as he ran his thumb over her palm. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear. "I promised that this won't be forever."

Francois, watching the two of them uneasily, raised his voice. "I don't want to know when you're gone," he said reluctantly. "If I don't know then there's no way for me to ever come looking for you, no weight on my conscience."

---

The train huffed patiently in the dark, complacently oblivious to the few snowflakes falling from the heavy clouds over the small town in Germany. They dotted Erik's cloak as he stood on the small balcony of the last car, Athena's reins looped over the railing of the quietly murmuring beast of the train. He didn't protest when Danielle pulled him beside her, wrapping his arm around her. Their embrace was like the final breath before the plunge, silently drawing strength from each other.

Danielle sighed with her face buried in the soft fabric of his cravat. "What is it?" he asked, his gloved hand brushing her ear. She leaned back to look at him, meeting his eyes beneath the brim of his fedora.

"I fell deaf without you heartbeat in my ears," she said softly, smiling at her own triteness. Erik laughed quietly, holding her against him to remember how she breathed, lest he forget again. Just as Danielle was drinking in that wonderful sound, the train's whistle sliced through the night, making Athena whicker anxiously. Erik slipped something into the pocket of her heavy cloak before turning. The wheels jerked as Erik jumped into Athena's saddle, pulling the reins free of the bars when Danielle hurriedly caught his sleeve. "When will we see each other again?"

"I don't know," he admitted, placing his hand on her cheek as she did the same, leaning over the rail. "I don't know, But we will find each other, find a way. The entire French army could not keep us apart." The train gave a lurch, and the two had to grab each others arms. Erik nudged Athena to a walk behind the train, loosely holding the reins in his weak arm, both trying to fight off the moment when they would finally be pulled apart.

"You will have to sing for me, when I'm gone."

"Until we are together, Danielle, I will never stop. I will always be there with you. When you look in the mirror, I will be there beside you. When the wind howls through the trees, it is my voice calling to you."

"Their hands slipped down to hold wrists as the train inexorably sped up.

"When the night wraps around you, it is my arms holding you."

Danielle's fingers rested just in his like that, first hesitant touch so long ago in reverse. "It's a love song," she whispered through her forlorn smile. "We should write an opera of it."

"We already have." The wind pulled at his cloak and gave Danielle one last fleeting touch against her outstretched hand, brushing against her fingertips. "_C'est une chanson d'amour, mon Ange, ce tout le monde chante pour nous."_ The night swallowed him up all to quickly, forming a great sea of silence space between them. Danielle stood frozen with her arm still outstretched, the wind pulling her cloak against her lithe form.

The cold wind wouldn't stop blowing between them, the cold wheels wouldn't stop turning, and her blood wouldn't stop singing its suddenly lonely aria…

The thing Erik had slipping into her pocket suddenly pressed against her hip as the wind tugged her cloak around her, and she lowered her hand to pull it out. A faint smile, a wistful shadow of one, crossed her lips, and she turned and opened the door back into the train.

"It's alright, Francois," she said as he began to rise when she returned to the compartment. She shut the door behind her and went to the window, sitting down beside it. Francois hesitated and slowly eased back to his seat, watching her stare out the window. He could see the phantom of the look, the posture, the gleam in her eye as when she had first asked what he would do with Erik, but there was a sense of peace overlaying it. She glanced down at her hands in her lap, her sandy hair falling over her shoulder. Something metallic glimmered faintly between her fingers, and when she laid her hands open, an ornate music wheel rested in her palms. The bronze device was set in an intricately carved and pierce little ox, just big enough to hold the wheel. Danielle's finger lingered on the music box's key as she took a slow, steady breath.

"Thank you, Francois," she said softly, her slender fingers tracing the lines of the black wood. They closed over the box, trembling faintly, and she shut her eyes. "Thank you."

Almost impulsively, he pushed himself off the seat and knelt down before her, resting his hands over hers in her lap. Danielle started, her fingers tightening on the music box as her eyes flew open, but Francois bowed his head. "Forgive me, Danielle, if I have failed you. I only did what I thought was right."

Very slowly, Danielle relaxed, staring down at him. This man didn't belong in the uniform of a gendarme; he belonged in a knight's armor, chasing after dragons to free some maiden from a dark tower. He was a man who belonged in legend, in a time long forgotten.

"Francois," she said, and he looked up at her. "Do you know what makes a person noble?"

"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" he asked, frowning slightly in confusion.

"Do you know what makes a person noble? You've been trying to look after me because you think I'm noble, an aristocrat. But do you know what really makes a person so?" She paused, her hands slowly relaxing on the music box in her lap. "What truly makes a person noble is when they follow their own path, what they know to be true, no matter who stands in their way. When they refuse to let the world tell them what is right. And then when they search for it themselves." Francois shifted as she lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder, smiling sadly at him. "That, Francois Nereaux, is what makes a person noble. Not money, or rank." And she fell silent, her hand slipping from his shoulder to fall back in her lap. Distractedly, he eased back to his seat, watching her without seeing as he thought. The soft sound of gears turning barely reached his ears as Danielle wound the key, and the first crystalline notes of the music box rang forth. It was a lullaby, a liltingly sweet sound that seemed written for the look in her eyes. Danielle turned, staring out the window as night fell, the country flying by as Paris drew nearer.

The music whispered in her ear, almost as if Erik were there playing it beside her. She could hear the strains of a violin instead of the crisp chime of the music wheel, the lilting melody wrapping around her as her eyelids drooped. Her mind began to swim, the view outside the window growing distorted and vague as her eyes lost their focus. Her hand crept unconsciously to her stomach, where she could still almost feel the man's fist landing hours before, and she shivered faintly as a wave of nausea broke through her at the touch. Her eyes slid shut, her breath fogging the window, as she felt the terrifying sensation of falling a very long way come over her.

Erik suddenly caught her, like he had said he always would, one hand on the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades, gently easing her onto the bed. She sank into the luxurious, velvety pillows, resting her head back as she opened her eyes.

"Rest, Angel," he soothed, brushing her hair out of her face. Danielle blinked up at him, running her hand up through his hair as if she doubted its reality.

_Francois started, leaping off his seat to catch Danielle as she suddenly swooned, falling back against the seat. She was cold when he brushed a hand over her brow, her eyes flickering behind pale lids. He laid her on the seat, stretching her out as best he could._

"Erik?" she started, but he rested a gentle finger against her lips.

"Hush, Danielle, you've been a long way. You deserve a rest." He smiled and spread a blanket over her, resting his hand on her middle as she suddenly pulled him into a kiss.

"I didn't want you to go," she murmured against his lips, and he put a hand behind her head.

"I know." He pushed her back against the rich pillows caringly, sitting at the head of the bed so that she could place her head on his shoulder. "I know, but now you must rest. I'll sing you to sleep, if you like." Danielle's hand crept up to his neck as she looked up at him, still on one elbow leaning over her.

"But you won't be here when I wake up," she whispered. "Whenever I fall asleep beside you, you're always gone by morning. I never want to get up, I'm afraid that you'll be gone again."

_"But you won't be here," she murmured faintly, tossing her head. Francois leaned over her worriedly, placing his hand over hers still clasped to her middle._

Erik smiled sadly. "I know, Angel. I'm sorry." He kissed her brow, whispering in her ear. "I won't be here when you wake, but I promise that I will be there before you sleep again."

"You promise?"

"I promise," he said. He leaned back against the pillows, her head now resting comfortingly against his shoulder, and softly began to sing her the lullaby.

_The music box fell from Danielle's shivering hand, landing on the floor with a softly sad chime, as if it, too, were worried for its mistress._

---

Erik stood before the steps of the great mausoleum, staring up at the woman standing imperiously at their head. The single torch behind the doors was dead and cold, now, no snow falling, but a cold stillness lay over all gathered. Bound about his wrists was the Punjab lasso, the mask stolen away. Lady Justice stared down at him from the top step, and though he could not see her eyes behind her sacred blindfold, he could feel them, fixed on his soul like a hawk on its prey. She pulled her sword free of its scabbard, placing the sheath in the hands of one of her maidens in waiting, and handed her infallible scales to another. With a snap of her fingers, the lasso had fallen from his wrists and was placed in her hand. She draped the coiled viper on one of the scales, and Erik could see it hiss and try to bite at her pale fingers.

Erik shut his eyes, unable to watch that dreaded snake tip the scale so low it should have brushed the ground. When he dared to open them, it flicked its forked tongue at him, hissing and grinning evilly.

Lady Justice, expressionless, turned to him, and Erik felt his mouth go dry. No one, _no one, _had ever made him feel like that, like a pathetic, minuscule ant beneath a magnifying glass. He didn't like the feeling. She reached her hand out, and Erik froze. The slightest twitch of her finger beckoned him forward. He yearned with every fiber of his being that he could disobey her, but his feet dragged against his will up the steps. Her outstretched hand, like a piece of flawless marble, brushed the collar of his shirt as he drew to an uneasy halt before her, one step below. Without a flicker of her perfect lips, she grabbed the chain around his neck and pulled the little ring free of his shirt. Behind her blindfold, he could imagine her scrutinizing it, and when she tore the chain from his neck he cried out. He swore that wasn't the chain she had torn from him. Erik expected her fingers to be stained with blood, his nearly broken heart clasped in her fist, but just the ring dangled from her hand.

It rang as she dropped the chain opposite the snake; the viper hissed at it, coiling around itself as the scales swung. He gritted his teeth as he put a hand against his chest, wincing faintly as he dropped to a knee. He froze as Lady Justice moved again, lifting the blade in her hand as she watched the scales intently. Erik felt the cold tip touch his chin as he shut his eyes, bracing himself against the last thrust…

Waiting…

…waiting

Erik finally opened one eye, anxiously searching for the scales. The mausoleum still stood, lithe weeping willow trees hanging still and graceful in the silent world around it. The scales and sword hung in the branches, the bronze dishes conspicuously empty. He stared at them for a moment in bewilderment, unable to decide if their emptiness was a good sign or a bad one.

The soft rustle of fabric made him turn his head, and he caught his breath. She stood all in white, her hair cascading over her shoulders as she slowly pulled off the blindfold. Her cape shrugged aside as the purest white wings unfurled from her back, whispering in the still air. Erik gaped up at her in wonder, her white gowns now more magnificent than the snow surrounding them, and she bent down to kneel at a level with him.

"Erik," she said, smiling wistfully. Her slender hand tenderly touched his bared cheek as her skirts pooled around her. "Dear Erik. You should hold onto this." He slowly lowered his eyes from her beautiful face, wondering why she would ever hide those magnificent hazel eyes behind a blindfold, and looked down at her other hand. She held it up for him, the chain hanging like mercury from her slender hand and the ring gleaming like the sun. Her smile widened as she placed it in his bewildered hand, closing the numb fingers gently over it. He stared down at it, amazed. "Don't lose it again, Erik."


	15. The Face in the Mirror

**Author's Notes: **So sososososososo sorry this took so long. I have major huge tests this weekened, and then once I finished the chapter (in two days, so proud), the site wouldn't let me upload it! But now it's working again, thank God, and here's the chapter!

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Chapter 15 – The Face in the Mirror

Danielle sat at the dining room table, warming her hands around her cup of tea. Nicola and Christine sat across from her on the couch, flipping through a gilt-edged ledger. The whole room was veritably draped in white: swatches of gauze, silk, linen, bouquets of lilies and roses strewn about as if a blizzard had overtaken the entire place. Nicola reached over and picked up a few roses, piecing them together experimentally. Danielle sat on the floor amidst all the white, her elbows on the table as she stared without seeing through the window where barely a shred of white could yet be found.

Jacques and Nicola's wedding was set for the twenty-first of December, the winter solstice, and the first snow in Paris. The snow that had been falling in Russia for at least a fortnight now, even in Germany, had yet to freeze over Paris. It was all just dreary rain here, still waiting to pull on its white gown.

Danielle had awoken in a hospital bed late at night nearly two weeks ago, her father the only one awake in the dim light from the corridor. Raoul had been examining the little music box, turning it over in his hands as it chimed its lilting melody, and when she had pushed herself up in the bed he had raised his head to look over at her.

"Did you find what you were looking for, dear?" he had asked Danielle sat up, shifting the warm sheets around her to keep out the relative cold. Her father got up and came to sit at the edge of the bed, his hand pressing briefly against her brow. "You look better. How do you feel?"

Danielle blinked and looked around a moment. "I feel…" She paused, her eyes falling on the music box in her father's hand, now still and silent. So silent…She licked her dry lips, and Raoul followed her gaze down.

"So you found him?" Danielle nodded, drawing her knees up towards her chest. One arm wrapped around them, hugging herself. "Was he as hurt as you were?" he asked. She froze, her eyes wide in the dark as she looked up at him.

"What?" she asked, her voice low.

"You've been asleep for three days," he said gently, winding up the key in the music box. He set it in his daughter's hand, watched her sigh and shut her eyes. He lifted his hand to brush her hair back, and rested his hand on her cheek.

"No, Papa," she whispered, shaking her head against his palm. "He's…he's all right." She fell silent, looked down at the box held so tenderly in her hands, and Raoul smiled faintly at her.

"You've grown up, Danielle," he said, nodding to himself as if he were only just accepting some hard fact. "You've grown up."

"…Danielle?" She snapped out of her reverie with a start, blinking up at her mother and Nicola. Christine set down a scrap of white linen and stood up. "What do you think? Shall you both try on your dresses?"

"Dresses?" she repeated. Christine smiled and leaned over to put her hand on her daughter's.

"You are a bridesmaid, Danielle. We didn't forget to get you a dress. Come, I'll show you." She and Nicola led her up to the bedroom, swept a dress out of the closet. It was a plain, elegant thing when Danielle held it up to herself, turning to the mirror. There were thin straps at the shoulder, and the white satin fell into graceful folds at the skirt. Nicola smiled over her shoulder at Danielle's reflection.

"Well, try it on," she prompted. A smile lit Danielle's face as she held the dress against herself, thinking of how magnificent Nicola's dress was if this was just the bridesmaid's outfit.

"Well, at least you didn't pick something hideous." She actually laughed, turning to dress behind the screen.

"See, Christine," Nicola said secretively in her mother-in-law's ear, "she's coming around." Christine smiled faintly, tucking a strand of curls behind her ear. They had all been worried about Danielle when she had arrived, not a home, but in the hospital. M. Nereaux had refused to tell them what had happened, claiming that it was not his place to say, but he stayed and watched over her recovery almost adamantly. Danielle had seemed perfectly fine when she came home, laughing and positively thrilled that she hadn't missed the wedding. She enjoyed predicted with Nicola, practically praying, that it would snow on the first day of winter, and staying up to tell them about what she had seen with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. She never really spoke of what she had done, though. They still caught her staring off at nothing, lost to her own thoughts with a distant look in her eye. Christine heard the soft notes of a music box at night, though Raoul told her not to ask about it. And Danielle had yet to return to the Opera House.

She came out from behind the screen, smoothing the dress over her hips. Christine's thoughts stopped as she looked her daughter over. "Why, Danielle," she said with a smile, "you're going to make Nicola jealous." Both girls grinned.

"Then it's a good thing I wasn't any nicer. Maybe there's still time to sew those hideous little sashes and sleeves on." The bride laughed, plucking at the thin straps as if considering how much thread it would take. Her hand paused, and she touched the chain around Danielle's neck. "What's this?"

"Nothing," she suddenly said, her hand flying to her breast. Nicola stepped back in surprise, and Danielle shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Nicola. It's just…something I like to keep close." Her hand rested on the chain as she stared at the mirror distsractedly, and Nicola put her hand on the girl's pale shoulder.

"It's all right, Danielle. I'm sorry if I intruded." Nicola glanced at Christine in the mirror, standing off watching Danielle uneasily. She watched her daughter finger the chain absent-mindedly, and Nicola couldn't decide whether her solemn expression was for Danielle's loss, or Danielle's fate.

The front door to the house suddenly shut, and Nicola and Christine started out of their thoughts. Danielle merely shifted, turning her head to the bedroom door. She was suddenly at the banister to the stairs, leaning over to peer below. "Who is it, Alistair?"

The stately butler came to the foot of the staircase. "M. le Daroga Nadir Khan, here to see you, mademoiselle," he said in a drawling tone. The Persian peeked over the man's shoulder, his astrakhan cap in his hands.

"Good day, Mlle de Chagny," he said, smiling.

Danielle was changed in barely five minutes, and she sipped down the stairs to peck a kiss on his cheek. "So good to see you, daroga! How have you been?" Nadir turned at the sound of weight on the stairs, and bowed politely to Christine and Nicola.

"Madame Daaé." He kissed her hand, and she smiled at him.

"Dear daroga, are you here to take Danielle for tea? He's been missing it terribly, dear, stopping by at least twice a month to see if you were back." Danielle blinked in surprise.

"Yes, of course," the Persian said suddenly, and Danielle thought his cordiality was suddenly a little forced. Nadir bowed and offered her his arm, and the two left the house.

"Daroga, have you really been waiting for me this whole time?" Nadir looked slightly uneasy, and Danielle suddenly started and pulled her arm away. Her eyes fixed on the man standing leisurely at the end of the street. "What are you doing here?" she said, thought not entirely cruelly.

Francois Nereaux stood at the corner of the street, looking grateful to be back in the uniform of the gendarme. He bowed, lifting his hat to her briefly. Danielle looked between the two men anxiously. "Am I being abducted?" she snapped. Both men shared a look.

"Of course not, Danielle," Francois said, a faint blush staining his cheeks. He held out his arm for her. Danielle eyes it a moment before taking it warily. The three began to walk through the cool, crisp morning, damp after last night's rain, as Danielle waited for him to go on apprehensively.

"We're not going to tea, either," Nadir said. "We're going to the Opera."

"To the Opera?" she said softly. Francois stopped, drawing her to a halt beside him. Danielle was staring at nothing, again, blindly watching the few crisp leaves left swirl in the breeze.

"Danielle, are you telling me that you don't want to go?"

"She hasn't been back yet," Nadir said, watching her carefully. "What is that, Mlle de Chagny?" Danielle hesitated, looking around for a moment.

"I haven't had a chance to," she said, and Nadir actually snorted. Her spin stiffened. "Do you really want to know, daroga? I'm afraid," she snapped defensively, drawing her shawl around her closely. "The Opera is my home. I'm afraid that I'll go back, and it just won't be right. It won't be home. I don't think I could bear that." Francois put a hand on her arm, and was surprised when she didn't draw back. Danielle just stood there, her arms wrapped around herself.

"Danielle," he said gently, "would you play for me?"

That snapped her back. Danielle looked up at him, her brow furrowing. He could see her confusion, almost indignation: he wasn't the one who asked that. He took his hand back as she looked at him. "_Fenris' Cry._ Would you play that for me? He said that I should ask you."

"You never heard it? When you were following me across Europe?" She blinked up at him, and then suddenly nodded. "All right. I'll play it for you." She led the way, now, Nadir and Francois sharing a look behind her back. They followed her down the Avenue de l'Opera, past the Rue Scribe, and stopped before the steps of the Paris Grand Opera.

Danielle looked up at the façade with a tremulous breath, gazing at the columns and statues, all the way up to Apollo and his lyre so high above. Francois looked back from the top of the steps at her, frozen like marble at their foot. The Persian stopped beside her. "Mademoiselle?"

Danielle let her breath out steadily and took one step up. The daroga watched her and touched the thick envelope in his pocket, fingering it curiously. Francois pushed the door open, and held it before closing the heavy wooden entries with a thick, muffled sound. The main lobby was warm from the morning light streaming through the windows, stray dust motes dancing gin the velvety ribbons of light. Danielle looked around her, breathing in deeply before padding into the theater.

It was all the same. All blessedly the same. The plush velvet seats were still a meticulously groomed deep red; the chandelier still glistened above, the little door still sat beside it, painted to blend in to the frescoed ceiling. No gaping hole, like a void sucking all she knew from the familiar Opera House. The orchestral pit had barely changed at all. Francois came up as she climbed down into it, glancing around speculatively.

"Do you need the music?"

"No, Francois," she said without looking up. As she pushed her hair back, her fingers brushed the chain about her neck again. "I know it by heart." She sat, resting her graceful hands familiarly on the ivory keys.

The veil over that aching absence was suddenly pulled away, like the tarp over the skeleton of the chandelier locked away in the cellars, metal rims bent and twisted, a few forlorn strands of crystal and cut glass still dangling. Danielle's hands on the piano shivered, and she looked down at the keys in dismay.

"Francois," she said quietly, unable to look away from her hands. She couldn't hear it. The music was indiscernible, slipping from her grasping hands like smoke. Danielle couldn't even feel the memory of Erik's hand over her shoulder. She shivered and shut her eyes. "Francois, I need you to…"

"I can do it," Nadir suddenly said. Danielle opened her eyes and turned on the bench to look at him. The Persian came to stand behind her, his dark eyes seeming to understand. Danielle swallowed as she looked up at him. "Shut your eyes," he said, passing his hand before her eyes. She turned back to the keys, shutting her eyes. Nadir touched her shoulder fleetingly, let it hover there for a moment, and then let Danielle rest her hands on the ivory.

The music finally came as she sat there, wishing with all her might that it really was Erik standing behind her. She could almost feel his arm still on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing in small circles against her skin. She could hear the echo of the melody in her blood, if only faintly, and it was just enough to whisper Fenris into life. The wolf howled for her longingly, and her fingers held onto the last notes as if she didn't want to give them up, have the song end.

When she opened her eyes, Francois was staring at her with a glazed expression, his lips parted as if words had truly escaped him. He leaned back in the front row seat, shaking his head disbelievingly.

"Why didn't you play this when I saw you in Russia?" he asked. Danielle put her hands on the bench beside her, looking around at the theater for words.

"Because we were living the song that night. We didn't need to play it to hear each other." She raised her hand idly, her fingers tripping over the notes of the music box's lullaby. She had nearly forgotten the Persian was behind her until he sat down heavily in one of the musician's chairs. Danielle looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Mademoiselle," he said, turning a thick envelope over in his dark hands. "Does he love you?"

She took a moment before nodding. "Yes, daroga."

"And do you love him in kind?" Danielle's dark eyes watched Nadir, running his hands over the worn edges of the envelope. "Before he left Paris, he came to me. Staggered through my door, more like it. He came right into my living room and told me he was dying."

"What?" Danielle cried, pushing herself to her feet. Her slender hands clenching into fists at her sides, and a fervent light came into her eyes. Nadir sighed as he looked up at her, standing so much like a wolf over her fallen mate.

"Of love, mademoiselle." Her fists slackened, and she let her shoulders drop. Nadir watched her and realized that Erik had spoken true: if the woman had come to him and asked where Erik had gone, he would have told her. "He told me he was dying of love, mademoiselle, because of what had happened to you. Now, do you love him?"

"Yes, daroga," she said softly, sincerely. His hands paused on the paper as he looked up at her, intently searching for any shade of a doubt.

"Then this is yours." He stood and held out the envelope. Danielle carefully took it, touching the red letters in her name as she sank back to the bench. "You cannot imagine the nights I have spent this past year looking at that thing, wondering what could be so precious that you were not to have it until you came to my house. I would ask that you don't tell Erik that I gave it to you here?" he added hopefully. Francois stood and came to the edge of the orchestra pit as Danielle very carefully tore open the seal.

Her hand delicately pulled out first a note on a piece of small, thick paper, followed by a sheaf of parchment looked as if it had been torn from a book.

_Dear Danielle,  
I knew that you would not waste time to see the daroga before coming after me. I cannot know whether you have found me by now, or stopped looking, whether you hate me. But you must forgive me. It tears at my heart to leave you behind. I swear on whatever soul I have that I will meet you as soon as I can. I'm a wanted man still, but there must be a place, somewhere on this vast earth, where I can escape to. Where we can escape to. _

Danielle held the note loosely as she shifted the parchment forward. The edges were frayed where it had been taken from its book, but the lines were clear enough. Ode to a Nightingale was sketched in the corner of the page, and below as was single stanza of Keats' poem:

_Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
Called him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,  
To take into the air my quiet breath;  
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
In such an ecstasy!  
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—  
To thy high requiem become a sod._

Danielle, very slowly, very solemnly, folded the page back up and held it to her heart for a moment. Nadir and Francois watched her carefully, but they both might as well not have existed. Her fingers tightened on the envelope, and she slowly became aware of something still sealed within the packet. Setting the two papers down beside her, Danielle upended the envelope over one hand.

Two odd, bronze keys fell into her palm, clattering metallically against each other. Nadir leaned forward as she held one up to the light, examining the strange, flat edge where the teeth should have been. The other, when she picked it up, was normally shaped, though at the other end was an intricate little knot what looked like a Persian design.

"What are they for?" he asked quietly. Danielle shook her head, still examining the knot. When she abruptly stood, she nearly hit Francois, who had leaned farther over the banister of the orchestral pit to see. He started back, snatching his hat off, but she paid no heed. She stood as if in a trance, staring fixedly at the key, and climbed the few steps out of the pit. Nadir and Francois followed as she padded silently through the theater. She led them through the foyer and pushed open a door on the far end, leading them through shortcuts even Nadir had no knowledge of. Francois suddenly drew to a halt as they broke free into the main corridor that led down, now he knew, to the cellars.

"This is the place," he murmured, looking around at the hallway practically burned into his memory. Danielle paused, blinking in the dim gaslights as the damp breeze only barely rising from the cellars lifted her hair. She looked back at Nadir and Francois as if she had forgotten all about them, the keys still held tightly in her hand.

"Neither of you can come," she said, looking at them both. Nadir shook his head at her.

"Mademoiselle, I already know what lies down there. Please, let me see what those keys open." Danielle frowned at him, shifting the bronze around in her palm

"You're too curious sometimes, daroga. He doesn't, though." She nodded to Francois, who went stiff in indignation.

"Danielle, do you still think that I would use any knowledge against you? I…I trust you. About Erik. I wouldn't betray you both." He blushed at the admission, but his spine never bent. Danielle gaped at him.

"You…" She swallowed, staring at him in amazement. "Francois, you…you trust us? You would really…" Francois came before her and rested a hand on her arm. Her voice faded away as she looked down at it.

"Yes, Danielle," he said. She stared up at him in disbelief, her breath catching. She hurriedly spun away, a hand going to her mouth as her shoulders shook with one slight tremor. Francois waited concernedly until she took one gasping breath and walked into the gloom.

"Then come," she said softly, her voice thick.

The moment the damp, heavy breeze truly enveloped her, Danielle sighed. It still felt almost the same, but she couldn't help thinking that she felt a twinge as it blew, as if the wind were pulling at that empty place in her. Her steps echoed through the eerie silence as she climbed down the sloping road beneath the Opera. The boat was still there, tied to the ring in the wall where she had left it a year before. She picked up the pole and stepped into the boat, motioning both men to get in. They both tried to take the staff from her and push the boat along, but she refused. They sat in the prow, looking around as she silently drove them forward.

It was too quiet. Neither man would, notice of course, but Danielle did. The water didn't make a sound, neither the lap of the lake against the keel nor the comforting drip of water far off. The lake barely reflected the light of the lantern at the prow, just a pale suggestion of the candle. No otherworldly weavings of light cast back by the lake's surface like it ought to be. It was as if the lake itself had lost its magic, its music. When the shore rose up to meet the hull, it only wearily scraped against the boat. The candles breathed into life resignedly when Danielle stepped out of the boat. Erik's home was still the same; she couldn't place what made it seem so…lifeless, except for his absence.

Was she always going to feel like this? It was all the same, except the crushing silence that was creeping around her like ice. With a shudder she tossed it off, climbing up to the bedroom without a backward glance to the men. Nadir and Francois climbed out of the boat, and even the daroga couldn't help but look around in amazement. He touched the stone walls as he looked around, glancing over at where Mlle de Chagny had disappeared. Francois touched the ivory keys of the organ, brushing the dust off in what might have been respect.

The chime of the music box's cymbals suddenly turned both their heads, and they climbed quickly up to the bedroom. Francois paused at the head of the steps, looking in at Danielle. She knelt at the chest beside the bed, running her hand over the base of the music box. The cymbals seemed to echo weakly in that somber silence as she lifted the Persian key and fitted it into a cleverly disguised keyhole in the wood. The drawer popped open, and she lifted it carefully, rising to sit on the bed. They both watched as she picked up the diamond ring nestled inside and set it down on the sheets almost dismissively. Her fingers instead lingered on the simple silver hoop of the ring the daroga had given her, the magic trick Erik had pulled apart and split between them. Nadir recognized it as she set it down beside the diamond ring. She sighed and rubbed a finger along the shaft of the key now returned to her palm, and suddenly frowned at the drawer. The red satin inside of it was bunched in a corner, revealing a soft white beneath it. Her hand cautiously touched the satin and pushed it aside, drawing out the soft white piece of leather.

The white kid mask was so small when she spread it out on her lap, the eyes staring up at her almost inquisitively. The white porcelain mask hadn't evolved far from it, she realized with a small smile. Had the child's mask always been in the drawer, and she had just missed it the last time she had accidentally opened it? Or had he left it for her, who did not care about the mask on the grown man?

The other key suddenly weighed in her hand unbearably, and she looked past Nadir and Francois at the cove. She stood, dropping the mask over the rings as she walked past them. Her gaze was fixed on the mirror, the one looking glass left, and his words in the falling snow of Germany echoed in her mind. When you look in the mirror, I will be there beside you…

She came so close to her reflection that her breath fogged the glass, misting over its smooth surface. She passed her hand over the edge of the mirror and fit the slim, flat key between the glass and the gilt frame. The velvet draped over the corner slipped and cascaded over the glass, and Danielle moved her arm to hold it behind her. She ran the key up and down the frame before it suddenly gave way, falling into a keyhole. Nadir peered over her shoulder as she glanced at the mirror and braced her shoulder against it.

The key turned with a solid click like a deadbolt sliding free, and the entire looking glass fell back against the weight of her shoulder. Francois started as the velvet drape swung loose and Danielle disappeared behind it. Cautiously, Nadir reached out and pushed the velvet back.

Cool, fresh air wafted past them from the dark corridor. Danielle stood in the middle of it, her hand still on the key in the glass. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as she stared down the hallway, the wind caressing her cheek gently, lifting her hair as if it were an old friend. It almost seemed to blow the fear of the empty stillness away, carrying a pregnant silence with it. Behind her, Nadir picked up a candelabrum, the wavering light casting shadows that spilled around her. Her hand loosened the key from its lock and slipped it into her pocket. As Nadir and Francois came beside her, Danielle took a step forward, trailing her hand along the cool stone wall.

The tunnel stretched nearly a mile beneath the city streets, and when they finally reached a door Danielle touched the lock. She pulled back out the Persian key from her pocket and fit it in the door, taking one deep breath before pushing it open.

Daylight streamed in through the doorway, nearly blindingly bright after the dark of the tunnel. The three came out into it, blinking about as their eyes adjusted. The sounds of Paris flooded their ears, horses and buggies rattling by on the cobblestone streets, pigeons cooing as their wings beat the air. Nadir blew out the candles and set them in the corridor as Francois shut the door behind them. Looking around, Danielle suddenly realized where they were.

It was the Rue Tronchet, barely a hundred yards away from the intersection of Place de la Madeleine. The church itself, in all its Grecian glory, rose just at the end of the street.

Danielle glanced back at the door behind her. Its worn green stain was the color of the sea, just a plain door amongst the buildings and storefronts. The only thing special about it was the handle, worked in the shape of an intricate, almost life-like ebony grasshopper that seemed to match the little bronze scorpion on the end of the flat key.

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**Author's End Notes:** Well, so sorry that this took awhile, tests and whatnot taking up my much needed time. But here it is! The poem is just one of the stanzas from John Keat's poem "Ode to a Nightingale," so I take no credit or anything. It's a beautiful poem that I really love, might even be my favorite, so I definitely recommend going and reading the rest of it. 


	16. In the Darkness of the Night

**Author's Notes: **My friends, we have come to the culmination of this tale, which I have been working on for nearly six months now. I pray that you enjoy, and of course, I still love your R&R.

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Chapter 16 – In the Darkness of the Night 

"You may kiss the bride."

Danielle blinked, pulling her eyes away from the dark night outside the church. Jacques and Nicola were smiling at each other, looking happier than she had ever seen either of them. She was surprised either of them could kiss, they were smiling so widely. She laughed and clapped with everyone as the couple left the church hand in hand, climbing into the carriage that would take them to the reception.

She dropped one hand from her small bundle of lilies and reached to shut the carriage door. Jacques laughed and put a hand out to stop her. "Danni," he said, his arm still around Nicola as he smiled at his sister, "you can go off to the Opera if you want."

"What?" she said, her hand frozen on the handle. Her brother chuckles and pulled the lilies from her other hand, chucking her lightly under the chin.

"I know you want to, go ahead."

"But it's your wedding—"

"Of course it is, which is why we're going to the reception. But you're my sister, Danni, and I want you to have fun on my wedding night. Go to the Opera, play some piano. You've been looking across the city towards it all night. Now go!" He laughed and placed a kiss on her cheek before pulling the door shut himself. Danielle stood on the steps of the Madeleine, staring off at the carriage with a small smile growing on her lips. The wheels suddenly stopped and Nicola leaned out of the carriage, her bouquet of roses in her hand. All of the women on the steps cried happily and threw up their hands to catch the lucky flowers.

Nicola shut her eyes and lofted the bouquet of white roses, just a few pink and red ones in the center, into the air before Jacques pulled her back into the carriage. One of the other bridesmaids stepped past Danielle to reach up her hand.

The ribbon holding the roses together suddenly pulled loose, and the bundle fell apart in midair. Flowers scattered everywhere, almost every bridesmaid and unmarried maiden managing to snatch one white rose out of the air.

The three lone red roses fell at Danielle's feet. No one really noticed as they hurried to carriages or cabs that the groom's sister bent down to tenderly pick up each crimson bloom and glance down the Rue Tronchet. Lifting her white skirt, she pulled a key from the pocket of her cloak and slipped away from the warm light into the embracing velvety darkness.

---

The pristine snow glistened faintly on the rooftop, fresh flakes falling to powder the world below. It decorated the court of marble figures, feathering the Pegasus wings and dusting Apollo's mighty shoulder uplifting his lyre to the falling heavens. The cold wind stirred it in little eddies as it fell, an isolated waltz quickly left behind. In that world of white, overlooking the soft glow of the city of lights, the deep red of the rose was nearly lost. It lay fallen in the snow, slipped from a pale hand, slowly letting the snowfall blanket it in white. Two other lay near it, each spilled like a drop of blood on the snow from the same slender, shivering hand.

The one rose she held was old, the frail faded petals cupped delicately in her hands. The black silk ribbons still gleamed faintly as the wind wound it around her fingers, lifting her hair. Her white gown did little to stop it, but the tiger's cloak draped about her shoulders stirred lazily, as if only idly interested in the faint wind.

Danielle held the blossom close to her lips, breathing in the almost lost damp, subterranean fragrance of that world by the lake. She had been almost afraid to return through the mirror with the keys, loath to return to that silence that seemed to crush and suffocate her. But she had seen the rose, still sitting on the sheets where she had left it

all those months ago, after Erik had left her Aminta's dress and their score. How had she not seen it when she was there with Francois and Nadir?

She held it tenderly, now, closer to her breast. The tight knot in her throat pulled a little more snug, but Danielle stifled her gasp for breath. She had no need for tears. But she couldn't help a few that slid past her lashes, falling like dew on the rose's fragile petals as her grip on the stem tightened. She forced her other hand open, dropping the key as if the little bronze scorpion had stung her.

It had just been so silent, so empty, when she went back. She felt like such a child, afraid of being alone in the dark. The lake should have been as permeated with music and mystic wonder as a winter morn was filled with mist, but it had only been still, drops of water apologetically dripping somewhere far off as she poled the boat back across the unmoving surface. Before, even if there had been no sound, the silence had been a tangible sense of anticipation, a sustained rest that was only waiting for one of them to strike a key…

She could almost hear the notes rising off the strings of his violin…

"Mon Dieux, what's the point?" she asked, tilting her head back and opening her snow-laces lashes to the sky. She laid her hand over her satin-clad middle absently. It still hurt, every once in a while. The doctors had said she had hemorrhaged, that she would unlikely ever successfully bear a child now. That's what they attributed her few moments when she would let her loss overtake her. But they didn't know. How could they know?

What hurt was that Erik's hand wasn't there to be beneath hers. Her hand crept to the neck of her gown and gently drew the chain up. The thick ring strung upon it had become a familiar weight around her neck. She rolled it against her fingertips, watching the gleaming reflection of the city lights. She had bought it the day she had left the hospital. It was always about her neck now, hidden beneath her dress. "He was going to ask," she murmured, smiling faintly at it. By now it was a comforting thought as the gold band weighed in her palm. The thick, darkly gleaming metal reminded her of that night by the firelight, of the warmth of rich hot chocolate. Of his arms around her.

She was so lost in her thoughts, in the golden lights glimmering past Apollo's wings, that she never heard the imperceptible sound of the rooftop's door closing.

---

He ghosted down the few steps from the door, his shoes never making a noise, his thick cloak only barely whispering in the gentle wind. He might as well have been one of the marble figures, a part of the Opera, for all that the night noticed him. It never minded that he didn't wear his mask, letting the breeze stroke his face.

Erik never even glanced to the sill of the skylight, never expected to see her sitting by it waiting. He had given up hope of fantasies coming true like that.

He had seen her at the wedding. Danielle had looked beautiful in her white gown, more breathtaking than the bride herself, at least in his eyes. She had been resplendent, as beautiful as the white lilies she held, like the snow even now falling around him.

_She should have been holding roses, _he thought, his eyes falling on the deep red bloom lying draped in snow. He frowned slightly before kneeling beside it, picking the blossom up in his gloved hands. He had always loved roses for some reason. Perhaps it was the softness, the delicacy, of the flower's petals, nestled among so many barbed thorns. As if it were trying to protect itself from a world that meant it no harm.

There had been red roses in the bride's bouquet. He had never really understood the wedding music before now. Erik had crept silently up the steps of the Madeleine, unseen in his dark cloak against the night. Golden light spilled through the windows, and he stepped to the very edge of the night undisturbed by the glow. The priest's words washed over him in a meaningless monotone as he saw Danielle, standing smiling at her brother.

She wouldn't be at the Opera tonight. She would be with him, her brother, like she should be. She wouldn't be here tonight. And he knew he couldn't stay.

The couple's vows had suddenly reached his ears with almost mocking sincerity as he stood, frozen at the steps and hidden in the darkness.

"I do," the boy said, smiling.

"I do," she replied, squeezing his hands.

Erik nearly bit his tongue when he realized he had been about to echo them. The two leaned toward each other and kissed as the organ rang out the wedding march again, and his eyes flew to Danielle. She was staring out the doors towards the night he stood cloaked in, her lips parted, and for a moment he almost dared to think that she saw him. But then she looked back at her brother, at the married couple, and smiled. Erik drew back into the night, leaving the light and the wedding march behind. And now he was alone on the roof of the Opera, clutching a rose like so many years before.

He couldn't help imagining that it was Danielle and he before the altar and the statue of Lady Magdalene and her angels. His skin tingled faintly where the ring hung against his chest. He had come here looking for her, searching for the other half of his heart. Ever since his dream of Lady Justice, Erik had been unable to forget that night in Russia, the look in Danielle's eyes when she had seen the ring against his chest. How much he had longed just to ask…

He held the rose closer to his lips, his own version of the wedding song composing itself in his mind, and confided to it. "I do," he whispered, only wishing she could hear.

"—would have said yes." Erik's hand on the rose stilled. He was imagining again. He had to be. He lifted his head slowly, the breeze caressing his bare cheek as it coaxed him to look. Danielle turned back very slowly, standing from the sill of the skylight that turned her dress from white to pale gold.

"Erik?" she asked softly, the rose slipping from her fingers as she stared at him. He rose from his knee, the bloom he held falling away as well.

"Danielle." She was here. He took a step towards her, a disbelieving smile curling his lips. Her hair was loose from the pins she had worn, her hazel eyes bright with slowly blooming wonder.

She was…

…really…

…here.

Danielle cried out happily as he suddenly leapt up onto the sill and pulled her into his arms, holding her so close he might drown in her. She was on her tiptoes, her head over his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around her neck. "Erik," she whispered, shutting her eyes as she desperately gasped in as much air as her lungs could hold. "Oh, Erik, Erik, Erik," she said over and over, nestling her face against his neck. The scent of rosin, of the sea, of _him_ was there, filling her senses. She would gladly have held that air in her lungs until she died. His arms tightened around her as he buried his cheek in her hair, holding her as if he truly were drowning in the feel of her against him.

"You're here," he said beside her ear. She drew back, her eyes damp with unshed tears of joy. She pressed her hand against his cheek, rubbing her thumb along the strong bone before he took it and kissed her palm.

"You're not wearing your mask," she said, smiling.

"I don't need it," he said, never taking his lips from her skin. "Danielle," he murmured, "all I need is you." She smiled and stroked his cheek again, her thumb caressing every line, every contour. Erik shut his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into her hand.

"I love you, Erik."

"Love isn't a word strong enough," he said quietly, his hand rising to cover hers. Of course it wasn't. They were both creatures of music, of song, and bare words could hardly convey what either of them felt. The feel of her skin against his could have been a sonata to rival Beethoven himself. Erik shook his head again at the lack of words and gently pulled her hand away, opening his eyes to look down at her palm spread in his own. Her slender fingers twined in his as he stared at them, gently pulling off the leather gloves. Her hand was so soft in his as she laced her fingers intimately back through his again, her eyes never leaving his face. Erik rubbed his thumb over her skin, savoring the slightest touch. What made it so sweet, to gain something after you thought it had been lost forever?

"Danielle," he finally said, taking her hand to his chest. She blinked and stepped closer, if that were possible. "That night," he said, lifting his other hand to brush her cheek with the back of his fingers, "in Russia. I never was able to finish." The world fell silent around them again, holding its breath so that they could hear each other. Danielle's hand pressed against his chest as she felt his heartbeat, his hand tightening on hers. Erik took back his other hand and touched the chain beneath his collar, lifting it up until the little ring was free of his shirt. It was weightless now, when he had expected it to bear him down, and shone so flawlessly. "Danielle," he asked, his pale blues eyes gazing into hers, "would you marry me?"

Her other hand suddenly flew to the neck of her white dress to touch the chain about her own neck, and for the first time Erik realized what she wore as well. She smiled as he let go of her hand to brush the gold band, and then he laughed quietly. She wanted this.

She wanted him. "I've been waiting so long for you to ask that." The rings shone in the glow from the skylight beneath them as they both freed them from the chains.

Erik tenderly took her hand in his, slipping the ring over her finger. "Danielle, I vow to be your husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, through the light of day and the dark of night, pains and joys, until death do us part." He paused, looking up from the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly, just as he had known it would, and she smiled. "If you will have me." It was her wistful smile, the one that she wore when she was happiest. Her eyes were more beautiful than ever when she looked up at him, squeezing his hand.

She shifted her hand in his so that she could place her band upon his finger. "Erik," she said, touching the band, "I vow to be your wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, through suffering and delight, the warmest springs and the coldest winters, now unto forever. If you will have me."

Her hand shivered in his as he took it. Had he ever even dared to dream of this? This perfect euphoria was more than he could bear, more than he could put into words. How had he never understood the wedding march before? "Of course," he said, his words barely rising above his breath. Danielle's smile widened as she laughed.

"You're supposed to say, 'I do,'" she murmured, squeezing his hands. Erik smiled suddenly and leaned forward to kiss her, pressing his lips against hers. He could feel her breath against lips when he drew back the slightest. Euphoria, that was the word.

No, wait. Love. Yes, that was it. Love.

"I do," he said. He opened his eyes to stare at hers, so close that the color of her eyes reflected faintly in his.

"I do," she whispered back and kissed him again. His hand crept up to hold her cheek, and she slipped her hand around his neck to hold him close, the ring on her finger warm against his skin.

There was no organ playing the wedding march. There was no fanfare of triumphant symphonies. There was no choir proclaiming their joy to the heavens.

No Madeleine. No cathedral.

Just Apollo with his lyre, the snow drifting from the heavens, and their blood singing stronger and more joyfully than any voice ever could.

Just the Phantom and his Angel.

_Le Fin_

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**Author's End Notes: **Dear gracious Lord, it's done! And yet, I'm slightly sad about it. (probably because now it means I'll have no excuse not to work on my school projects) I want to sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank each and every one of you readers who bothered to take the time to check me out and maybe leave a review or two. I love you all. big smoochy kisses It really made all the difference to me. So...thanks. 

Oh, and BTW, this might not be the end of this fanfic idea for me. I still have some more ideas brewing for Danielle and Erik, so if you see them later, well, that's just them insisting to get out of my head and onto paper.


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